CHAPTER II
Our new-comer had stayed for over a week in the town, driving about to evening-parties and dinners and so passing his time, as it is called, very agreeably. At last he made up his mind to carry his visits beyond the town and to go and see Manilov and Sobakevitch as he had promised. Perhaps he was impelled to this by another more essential reason, by something more serious and nearer to his heart. … But of all this the reader will learn by degrees in due season, if only he has the patience to read through the following narrative, a very long one, since it has later on to cover a wider and wider ground as it approaches its conclusion.
Selifan the coachman was given orders to put the horses into the familiar chaise early in the morning; Petrushka was instructed to remain at home to look after the room and the portmanteau. It will not be amiss for the reader to be made acquainted with these two serfs of our hero's. Although of course they are not very prominent characters but are rather what are called secondary or even tertiary, though the principal events and the mainsprings of the poem do not rest upon them, and only here and there touch and lightly catch upon them, yet the author likes to be extremely circumstantial in everything, and in that respect, though a Russian, prefers to be as precise as a German. This however will not take up much time and space, since we need not add much to what the reader knows already, that is, that Petrushka wore a rather roomy brown coat that had been his master's, and had, as usual with persons of his calling, a thick nose and lips. He was rather of a taciturn than of a talkative disposition; he even had a generous yearning for enlightenment, that is, for reading books, over the subject of which he did not trouble himself: it was precisely the same to him whether it was the story of a love-sick hero's adventures, or simply a dictionary or a prayer-book—he read everything with equal attention. If he had been offered a manual of chemistry he would not have refused it. He liked not so much what he read as the reading itself, or rather the process of reading, the fact that the letters continually made up a word and the devil knows what it might sometimes mean. His reading was for the most part done in a recumbent position on the bedstead in the passage and on a mattress which had through this habit been flattened out as thin as a wafer. Apart from his passion for reading he had two other characteristics; he slept without undressing, just as he was, in the same coat, and he always brought with him his own peculiar atmosphere, his individual odour which was suggestive of a room which has been lived in a long time, so that it was enough for him to put up his bedstead somewhere even in a room hitherto uninhabited, and to instal there his greatcoat and belongings, for it to seem at once as though people had been living in the room for the last ten years. Tchitchikov, who was a very fastidious and in some cases an over-particular man, would pucker up his face when he sniffed the air in the morning and, shaking his head, would say: 'Goodness knows what it is, my boy, you are in a sweat or something, you should go to the bath.' To which Petrushka made no reply but tried to be very busy about something at once: either he went with a brush to his master's dress coat hanging on a peg, or simply put something in its place. What was he thinking while he was silent? Perhaps he was saying to himself: 'You are a nice one too, you are never tired of saying the same thing forty times over …' God knows, it is hard to tell what a serf is thinking when his master is giving him a lecture. So much then may be said of Petrushka to start with. Selifan, the coachman, was quite a different man. … But the author is really ashamed of occupying his readers' attention so long with persons of a low class, knowing from experience how reluctant they are to make acquaintance with the lower orders. It is characteristic of the Russian that he has a great passion for making the acquaintance of any one who is ever so little higher in rank, and a nodding acquaintance with a count or a prince is more precious to him than the closest friendship of ordinary human beings. The author, indeed, is a little anxious over his hero who is only a collegiate councillor. Court councillors perhaps will consent to make his acquaintance, but those who have attained the rank of general may perhaps—God knows—cast upon him one of those contemptuous glances which a man proudly casts at everything which grovels at his feet, or, worse still perhaps, pass by with an indifference that will stab the author to the heart. But however mortifying either of these alternatives would be, we must in any case return now to our hero.
And so, having given his orders overnight, he woke up very early in the morning, washed, rubbing himself from head to foot with a wet sponge, an operation only performed on Sundays—and it happened to be a Sunday—he shaved so thoroughly that his cheeks were like satin for smoothness and glossiness, he put on his shot cranberry-coloured swallow-tail coat, then his overcoat lined with thick bearskin; then, supported first on one side and then on the other by the waiter, he went downstairs and got into his chaise. The chaise drove rumbling out of the gates of the hotel into the street. A passing priest took off his hat, some street urchins in dirty shirts held out their hands, saying, 'Something for a poor orphan, sir!' The coachman, noticing that one of them was very zealous to stand on the footboard, gave him a lash with the whip, and the chaise went jolting over the cobble-stones. It was not without relief that our hero saw in the distance the striped barrier post that indicated that to the cobbled road as to every form of torture there would soon be an end, and after striking his head rather violently against the sides of the chaise two or three times more, Tchitchikov glided at last over the soft earth. As soon as the town was left behind, all sorts of wild rubbish and litter made its appearance on both sides of the road, as is usually the case in Russia: mounds of earth, firwoods, low scanty thickets of young pines, the charred stumps of old ones, wild heather and such stuff. They came upon villages consisting of a string of huts, looking like old timber stacks, covered with grey roofs with carvings under them, that resembled embroidered towels. As usual a few peasants sat gaping on benches in front of their gates, dressed in their sheepskins; peasant women, tightly girt above the bosom, showed their fat faces at the upper windows; from the lower ones a calf stared or a pig poked out its small-eyed snout. In short, there were the familiar sights.
After driving about ten miles our hero remembered that from Manilov's account his village ought to be here, but the eleventh mile was passed and still the village was not to be seen, and if they had not happened to meet two peasants they could hardly have reached their destination. To the question, 'Is the village of Zamanilovka far from here?' the peasants took off their hats and one of them with a wedge-shaped beard, somewhat more intelligent than the other, answered: 'Manilovka perhaps, not Zamanilovka?'
'Yes, I suppose, Manilovka.'
'Manilovka! Well, if you go on another half mile then you turn straight off to the right.'
'To the right,' repeated the coachman.
'To the right,' said the peasant. 'That will be your road to Manilovka; but there is no such place as Zamanilovka. That is what it is called, its name is Manilovka, but as for Zamanilovka there is no such place here about. There straight before you on the hill you will see the house, built of brick, two storeys high—the manor house, that is, where the gentleman himself lives. There you have Manilovka, but there is no Zamanilovka here and never has been.'
They drove on to look for Manilovka. After going on another mile and a half they came to a by-road to the right; but they drove on another mile, and two miles, and three miles and still no brick house of two storeys was to be seen. At that point Tchitchikov recalled the fact that if a friend invites one into the country a distance of ten miles it always turns out to be twenty. Few people would have been attracted by the situation of the village of Manilovka. The manor house stood on a bluff, that is, on a height exposed to every wind that might chance to blow; the slope of the hill on which it stood was covered with closely-shaven turf. Two or three flower-beds with bushes of lilac and yellow acacia were scattered about it in the English fashion; birch-trees in small groups of five or six together lifted here and there their skimpy tiny-leaved crests. Under two such birch-trees could be seen an arbour with a flattish green cupola, blue wood pillars, and an inscription: 'The Temple of solitary meditation'; lower down there was a pond covered with green scum, which is however nothing uncommon in the English gardens of Russian landowners. Grey log huts, which our hero for some unknown reason instantly proceeded to count, and of which he made out over two hundred, lay here and there at the foot of the hill and for some distance up the slope of it. Nowhere was there a growing tree or any kind of greenery among them to relieve the monotony of the grey logs. The scene was enlivened by two peasant women who, with their skirts picturesquely tucked up on all sides, were wading over their knees in the pond, dragging by two wooden poles a torn net in which two crayfish were entangled and a gleaming roach could be seen; the women seemed to be quarrelling and were scolding each other about something. A pine forest of a dreary bluish colour made a dark blur in the distance. Even the very weather was in keeping. The day was neither bright nor gloomy but of a light-grey tint,—such as is only seen in the uniforms of garrison soldiers, those peaceful—though on Sundays apt to be intemperate—forces. To complete the picture, a cock, herald of changing weather, crowed very loudly, though his head had been pecked to the brain by other cocks during his flirtations, and even flapped his wings plucked bare as old bast mats.
As he drove up to the courtyard, Tchitchikov noticed on the doorstep the master of the house himself, who attired in a green coat of shalloon was standing, holding his hand to his forehead to screen his eyes from the sun and get a better view of the approaching carriage. The nearer it came, the more delighted he looked and the broader was his smile.
'Pavel Ivanovitch!' he cried, as Tchitchikov alighted from the chaise. 'So you have remembered us at last!'
The friends kissed each other very warmly and Manilov led his visitor indoors. Though the time spent by them in passing through the vestibule, the hall, and the dining-room will be somewhat brief, yet we must snatch the opportunity to say a few words about the master of the house. But at this point the author must confess that the task is a very difficult one. It is much easier to describe characters on a grander scale: then you simply have to throw the colour by handfuls on the canvas—black, glowing eyes, overhanging brows, a forehead lined by care, a black or fiery crimson cloak flung over the shoulder, and the portrait is complete. But all the gentlemen (of whom there are so many in the world) who look so very much alike and yet, when you inspect them more closely, have many extremely elusive peculiarities, are fearfully difficult to describe. One has to strain one's attention to the utmost to make all the delicate almost indiscernible traits stand out, and altogether one needs to look deeply with an eye sharpened by long practice in the art.
God alone could say what Manilov's character was like. There are people who are always spoken of as being 'so-so,' neither one thing nor the other, neither flesh, fowl, nor good red herring, as the saying is. Possibly Manilov must be included in their number. In appearance, he was good-looking; the features of his countenance were rather agreeable, but in that agreeableness there was an overdose of sugar; in his deportment and manners there was something that betrayed an anxiety to win goodwill and friendship. He smiled ingratiatingly, he had fair hair and blue eyes. At the first moment of conversation with him one could not but say, 'What a kind and agreeable man!' The next minute one would say nothing, and the third minute one would say, 'What the devil is one to make of it?' and would walk away; if one did not walk away one would be aware of a deadly boredom. You would never hear from him a hasty or even over-eager word, such as you may hear from almost any one if you touch on a subject that upsets him. Every one has his weak spot: in one man it takes the form of hounds, another imagines that he is a great amateur of music and has a wonderful feeling for its inmost depths; a third is proud of his feats at the dining-table. A fourth is for playing a part if only one inch higher than that allotted him by fate; a fifth with more limited aspirations, dreams waking and sleeping of being seen on the promenade with a court adjutant to the admiration of his friends and acquaintances, and of strangers, too, indeed; a sixth is endowed with a hand which feels a supernatural prompting to turn down the corner of an ace of diamonds or of a two, while a seventh positively itches to maintain discipline everywhere and to enforce his views on station-masters and cabmen. In short every one has some peculiarity, but Manilov had nothing. At home he spoke very little, and for the most part confined himself to meditation and thought, but what he thought about, that too, God only knows. It could not be said that he busied himself in looking after his land, he never even drove out into the fields; the estate looked after itself somehow. When the steward said, 'It would be a good thing to do this or that, sir,' 'Yes, it would not be amiss,' he would usually reply, smoking his pipe, a habit he had taken to while he was in the army, in which he was considered a most modest, refined, and highly-cultured officer. 'Yes, it certainly would not be amiss,' he would repeat. When a peasant came to him and, scratching the back of his head, said, 'Master, give me leave of absence to earn money for my taxes,' 'You can go,' he would say, smoking his pipe, and it would never enter his head that the peasant was going for a drinking-bout. Sometimes, looking from the steps into the yard or at the pond, he would say how nice it would be to make an underground passage from the house, or build a bridge over the pond with stalls on each side of it and shopmen sitting in them, selling all sorts of small articles of use to the peasants. And as he did so, his eyes would become extraordinarily sugary, and an expression of the greatest satisfaction would come into his face. All these projects ended in nothing but words, however. In his study there always lay a book with a marker at the fourteenth page, which he had been reading for the last two years. In his home something was always lacking: in the drawing-room there was excellent furniture upholstered in smart silken material which had certainly cost a good price, but there had not been enough of it to cover everything and two of the easy-chairs had remained simply swathed in sacking. The master of the house had been for some years past in the habit of warning his guests: 'Don't sit on those armchairs, they are not finished yet.' In some of the rooms there was no furniture at all, although in the early days after their marriage he had said to his wife: 'To-morrow, my love, we must see about putting some furniture into those rooms if only for a time.' In the evening a very handsome candlestick of dark bronze with antique figures of the three Graces and an elegant mother-of-pearl shield was put on the table, and beside it was set a humble copper relic, unsteady on its legs and always covered with tallow, though this never attracted the notice of the master of the house, the mistress, or the servants. His wife was … however they were thoroughly satisfied with each other. Although they had been married over eight years they would still each offer the other a piece of apple or a sweet or a nut, and say in a touchingly tender voice expressive of the most perfect devotion: 'Open your little mouth, my love, and I will pop it in.' It need hardly be said that on such occasions the little mouth was gracefully opened. For birthdays they prepared surprises for each other—such as a beaded case for a toothbrush. And very often as they sat on the sofa, all at once, entirely without any apparent cause, he would lay down his pipe and she her needlework, if she happened to have it in her hands at the time, and they would imprint on each other's lips a kiss so prolonged and languishing, that a small cigar might easily have been smoked while it lasted. In short, they were what is called happy. Of course, it might be observed that there are many other things to be done in a house besides exchanging prolonged kisses and preparing surprises, and many different questions might be asked. Why was it, for instance, that the cooking was foolishly and badly done? Why was it that the storeroom was rather empty? Why was it the housekeeper was a thief? Why was it that the servants were drunken and immoral? Why was it all the house-serfs slept in a conscienceless way and spent the rest of their time in loose behaviour? But all these subjects were low, and Madame Manilov had had a good education. And a good education, as we all know, is received in a boarding-school; and in boarding-schools, as we all know, three principal subjects lay the foundation of all human virtues: the French language, indispensable for the happiness of family life; the pianoforte, to furnish moments of agreeable relaxation to husbands; and finally domestic training in particular, i.e. the knitting of purses and other surprises. It is true that there are all sorts of improvements and changes of method, especially in these latter days: everything depends on the good sense and capacity of the lady-principals of these establishments. In some boarding-schools, for instance, it is usual to put the pianoforte first, then French, and then domestic training. While in others domestic training, that is, the knitting of 'surprises,' takes the foremost place, then comes French, and only then the pianoforte. There are all sorts of variations. It may not be out of place to observe also that Madame Manilov … but, I must own, I feel frightened of talking about ladies, besides it is time for me to get back to my heroes, whom we have left standing for some minutes before the drawing-room door, each begging the other to pass in first.
'Pray don't put yourself out on my account, I will follow you,' said Tchitchikov.
'No, Pavel Ivanovitch, no, you are the visitor,' said Manilov, motioning him to the door with his hand.
'Don't stand on ceremony, please; please go first,' said Tchitchikov.
'No, you must excuse me, I cannot allow such an agreeable, highly cultured guest to walk behind me.'
'Why highly cultured? … Please pass in.'
'No, you, pray walk in.'
'But why?'
'Why, because!' Manilov said with an agreeable smile.
Finally the two friends walked in at the door sideways, somewhat squeezing each other.
'Allow me to introduce my wife,' said Manilov. 'My love, this is Pavel Ivanovitch!'
Tchitchikov did indeed observe a lady whom he had not noticed while bowing and scraping with Manilov in the doorway. She was not bad-looking and was becomingly dressed. Her loose brocaded silk gown of a pale colour hung well upon her: her delicate little hand flung something hurriedly on the table and crushed a cambric handkerchief with embroidered corners. She got up from the sofa on which she was sitting. Tchitchikov not without satisfaction bent to kiss her hand. Madame Manilov said, even speaking with a slight lisp, that they were greatly delighted at his visit and that not a day passed without her husband's mentioning him.
'Yes,' observed Manilov, 'she has been continually asking me, "Why doesn't your friend come?" "Wait a little, my love," I told her, "he will come." And here at last you have honoured us with a visit. It really is a pleasure you have given us … a May day … a festival of the heart.'
Tchitchikov was actually a little embarrassed on hearing that it had already come to festivals of the heart, and answered modestly that he had no great name nor distinguished rank.
'You have everything,' Manilov pronounced with the same agreeable smile, you have everything: more, indeed.'
'What do you think of our town?' inquired Madame Manilov. 'Have you passed your time there pleasantly?'
'A very nice town, a fine town,' replied Tchitchikov, 'and I have spent a most agreeable time: the society is most amiable.'
'And what did you think of our governor?' said Madame Manilov.
'He really is a most estimable and genial man, isn't he?' added Manilov.
'Perfectly true,' assented Tchitchikov, 'a most estimable man. And how thoroughly he throws himself into his duties, how thoroughly he understands them! If only there were more men like him!'
'How well he understands, you know, entertaining all sorts; what delicacy he displays in his manners!' Manilov chimed in with a smile, and he almost closed his eyes with gratification like a tom-cat who is being gently scratched behind his ears.
'A most affable and agreeable man,' continued Tchitchikov, 'and what a clever man he is! I could never have imagined it: how well he embroiders all sorts of patterns. He showed me some of his handiwork, a purse: not many ladies could have embroidered it so well.'
'And the deputy-governor, isn't he a charming man?' said Manilov, again screwing up his eyes.
'A most worthy man, most worthy,' answered Tchitchikov.
'And let me ask you, what was your impression of the police-master? He is a very agreeable man, is he not?'
'Extremely agreeable, and what an intelligent, well-read man! We were playing whist at his house with the public prosecutor and the president of the court till cock-crow. A most worthy man, most worthy!'
'And what did you think of the police-master's wife?' added Madame Manilov. 'A most amiable woman, isn't she?'
'Oh, she is one of the most estimable ladies I have ever known,' answered Tchitchikov.
Then they did not omit to mention the president of the court and the postmaster, and in this way ran through the names of almost all the officials in the town, who were, as it appeared, all excellent persons.
'Do you spend all your time in the country?' inquired Tchitchikov, venturing upon a question in his turn.
'Most of the time we do,' answered Manilov. 'Sometimes, however, we do visit the town simply in order to see something of cultured people. One grows too rustic if one stays shut up for ever.'
'That is true, that is true,' said Tchitchikov.
'Of course,' Manilov went on, 'it would be a different matter if we had nice neighbours, if for instance there were some one with whom one could to some extent converse on polished and refined subjects, pursue some sort of study that would stir the soul, it would give one inspiration, so to say …' He would have expressed something more, but, perceiving that he was wandering a little from the point, he merely twiddled his fingers in the air, and went on: 'In that case, of course, the country and solitude would have many charms. But there is absolutely no one. … Sometimes one is reduced to reading the Son of the Fatherland. …'
Tchitchikov agreed with this view entirely, adding that nothing could be more agreeable than to live in solitude, to enjoy the spectacle of nature and from time to time to read. …
'But you know,' added Manilov, 'if one has no friends with whom one can share …'
'Oh, that is true, that is perfectly true,' Tchitchikov interrupted him. 'What are all the treasures in the world then! Not money, but good company, a wise man has said.'
'And do you know, Pavel Ivanovitch,' said Manilov, while his face wore an expression not merely sweet but sickly cloying sweet, like a dose some tactful society doctor has mercilessly over-sweetened, thinking to gratify his patient, 'then one feels to some extent a spiritual enjoyment. … Here now, for instance, when chance has given me the rare, one may say unique, happiness of conversing with you and enjoying your agreeable conversation …'
'Upon my word, how can my conversation be agreeable? I am an insignificant person and nothing more,' answered Tchitchikov.
'Oh, Pavel Ivanovitch, allow me to be open with you! I would gladly give half my fortune to possess some of the qualities with which you are endowed!'
'On the contrary, I for my part should esteem it the greatest …'
There is no saying what pitch the mutual outpouring of sentiment between these two friends might have reached, had not a servant entered to announce a meal.
'Pray come to dinner,' said Manilov. 'You must excuse it if we have not a dinner such as you get in parqueted halls and great cities; we have simply cabbage soup in Russian style, but we offer it from our hearts. Pray go in.'
At this point they spent some time in disputing which should pass in first, and finally Tchitchikov walked sideways into the dining-room.
In the dining-room there were already two boys, Manilov's sons, children of an age to sit at the dinner table but still on high chairs. With them was their tutor, who bowed politely with a smile. The lady of the house sat behind the soup tureen; the visitor was placed between his host and hostess. A servant tied dinner napkins round the children's necks.
'What charming children!' said Tchitchikov, looking at them. 'How old are they?'
'The elder is eight and the younger was six yesterday,' said Madame Manilov.
'Themistoclus,' said Manilov, addressing the elder boy who was trying to free his chin which had been tied up in the dinner napkin by the footman. Tchitchikov raised his eyebrows a little when he heard this somewhat Greek name, which for some unknown reason Manilov ended with the syllable us; but he tried at once to bring his countenance back to its usual expression.
'Themistoclus! tell me which is the finest town in France?'
At this point the tutor concentrated his whole attention on Themistoclus and looked as though he were going to spring into his face, but was completely reassured at last and nodded his head when Themistoclus said: 'Paris.'
'And which is our finest town?' Manilov asked again.
The tutor pricked up his ears again.
'Petersburg,' answered Themistoclus.
'And any other?'
'Moscow,' answered Themistoclus.
'The clever boy, the darling!' Tchitchikov said upon this. 'Upon my soul,' he went on, addressing the Manilovs with an air of some astonishment, 'at his age, and already so much knowledge. I can assure you that that child will show marked abilities!'
'Oh, you don't know him yet,' answered Manilov, 'he has a very keen wit. The younger now, Alkides, is not so quick, but this fellow if he comes upon anything such as a beetle or a lady-bird, his eyes are racing after it at once; he runs after it and notices it directly. I intend him for the diplomatic service. Themistoclus,' he went on, addressing the boy again, 'would you like to be an ambassador?'
'Yes, I should,' answered Themistoclus, munching bread, and wagging his head from right to left.
At that moment the footman standing behind his chair wiped the ambassador's nose, and he did well, as something very unpleasant might else have dropped into the soup. The conversation at the dinner table began upon the charms of a tranquil life, interspersed with observations from the hostess about the town theatre and the actors in it. The tutor kept an attentive watch upon the speakers, and whenever he saw they were on the point of laughing, he instantly opened his mouth and laughed vigorously. Probably he was a man of grateful disposition and wished to repay the master of the house for his kindly treatment of him. On one occasion, however, his face assumed a severe expression and he sternly tapped on the table, fastening his eyes on the children sitting opposite him. This was in the nick of time, for Themistoclus had just bitten Alkides' ear, and Alkides, screwing up his eyes and opening his mouth, was on the point of breaking into piteous sobs, but, reflecting that he might easily lose the rest of his dinner, he brought his mouth back to its normal position and, with tears in his eyes, began gnawing a mutton bone till both his cheeks were greasy and shining.
The lady of the house often addressed Tchitchikov with the words: 'You are eating nothing, you have taken such a little.' To which Tchitchikov invariably answered: 'Thank you very much, I have done very well. Agreeable conversation is better than the best of good fare.'
They got up from the table. Manilov was extremely delighted and, supporting his visitor's backbone with his arm, was preparing to conduct him to the drawing-room, when all at once the visitor announced with a very significant air that he was proposing to speak to him about a very important matter.
'In that case allow me to invite you into my study,' said Manilov, and he led him into a small room, the window of which looked out towards the forest, bluish in the distance.
'This is my den,' said Manilov.
'A pleasant little room,' said Tchitchikov, scanning it. The room certainly was not without charm: the walls were painted a greyish-blue colour; there were four chairs, one easy-chair, a table on which lay the book and in it the book-marker which we have already had occasion to mention; but what was most in evidence was tobacco. It was conspicuous in various receptacles: in packets, in a jar, and also scattered in a heap on the table. In both the windows also there were little heaps of ashes, carefully arranged in very elegant lines. It might be gathered that their arrangement at moments afforded the master of the house a pastime.
'Allow me to beg you to take this easy-chair,' said Manilov. 'You will be more comfortable.'
'Excuse me, I will sit on this chair.'
'Allow me not to excuse you,' said Manilov with a smile. 'This easy-chair is always assigned to my guests; whether you like or not you must sit in it.'
Tchitchikov sat down.
'Allow me to offer you a pipe.'
'No, thank you, I do not smoke,' said Tchitchikov affably and with an air of regret.
'Why not?' asked Manilov also affably and with an air of regret.
'I am not used to it, I am afraid of it; they say smoking a pipe dries up the system.'
'Allow me to observe that that is a prejudice. I imagine, indeed, that it is far better for the health to smoke a pipe than to take snuff. There was a lieutenant in our regiment, a very excellent and highly cultured man, who never had a pipe out of his mouth, not only at table but, if I may say so, in every other place. By now he is over forty but, thank God, he is as strong and well as any one could wish to be.'
Tchitchikov observed that it did happen like that and that there were many things in nature that could not be explained even by the profoundest intellect.
'But allow me first to ask one question …,' he added in a voice in which there rang a strange, or almost strange, intonation, and thereupon for some unknown reason he looked round behind him. And Manilov too for some unknown reason looked behind him. 'How long is it since you made out a census return?'
'Oh, not for a long time; in fact, I don't remember when.'
'So that since then a good many of your peasants have died?'
'About that I can't say; I think we must ask my steward. Hey, boy! Call the steward; he was to be here to-day.'
The steward appeared. He was a man about forty who shaved his beard, wore a frock-coat and apparently led a very easy life, for his face looked plump and puffy, and the yellow complexion and little eyes betrayed that he was not a stranger to feather beds and pillows. It could be seen at once that he had made his way in life as all gentlemen's stewards do: he had once been simply a boy in the household who could read and write, then had married some Agashka, a housekeeper and favourite of the mistress, had himself become keeper of the stores and then steward. And, having become a steward, he behaved, of course, like all stewards: he hob-nobbed with those who were richer in the village and added to the burdens of the poorer; when he woke after eight o'clock in the morning he waited for the samovar and drank his tea before he went out.
'I say, my good man, how many of our peasants have died since the census was taken?'
'How many? A good many have died since then,' said the steward, and he hiccoughed, putting his hand before his mouth like a shield.
'Yes, I confess I thought so myself,' Manilov assented. 'A great many have died.'
Then he turned to Tchitchikov and added: 'Certainly, a very great many.'
'And what number, for instance?' Tchitchikov inquired.
'Yes, how many precisely?' Manilov chimed in.
'Why, how can I say what number? There is no telling, you know, how many have died, no one has counted them.'
'Yes, precisely,' said Manilov, addressing Tchitchikov. 'I, too, supposed there had been a considerable mortality; it is quite uncertain how many have died.'
'Please count them,' said Tchitchikov to the steward, 'and make an exact list of all of them by name.'
'Yes, of all of them by name,' said Manilov.
The steward said, 'Yes, sir,' and went out.
'And for what reason do you want to know?' Manilov inquired when the steward had gone.
This question seemed to put the visitor in some difficulty: his face betrayed a strained effort which even made him flush crimson, an effort to express something not easily put into words. And indeed Manilov did at last hear things more strange and extraordinary than human ears had ever heard before.
'You ask for what reason. The reason is this, I should like to buy the peasants …,' said Tchitchikov, hesitating and not finishing his sentence.
'But allow me to ask,' said Manilov, 'how do you wish to buy peasants, with land or simply to take away, that is, without land?'
'No, it's not exactly the peasants,' said Tchitchikov. 'I want to have dead ones …'
'What? Excuse me, I am a little deaf, I fancied I heard something very odd …'
'I propose to purchase dead ones who would yet appear on the census list as alive,' said Tchitchikov.
Manilov at that point dropped his pipe on the floor and stood with his mouth open for several minutes. The two friends, who had so lately been discussing the charms of friendship, remained motionless, staring at each other like those portraits which used in old days to be hung facing each other on each side of a looking-glass. At last Manilov picked up his pipe and looked up into his guest's face, trying to discern whether there were not a smile on his lips, whether he were not joking; but there was no sign of anything of the sort, indeed his countenance looked more sedate than usual. Then he wondered whether his guest could by some chance have gone out of his mind, and in alarm looked at him intently; but his visitor's eyes were perfectly clear; there was no wild uneasy gleam in them, such as is common in the eyes of a madman; all was decorum and propriety. However profoundly Manilov pondered how to take it and what to do, he could think of nothing but to blow out in a thin coil the smoke left in his mouth.
'And so I should like to know whether you could transfer such peasants, not living in reality but living from the point of view of the law, or bestow them, or convey them as you may think best?'
But Manilov was so embarrassed and confused that he could only gaze at him.
'I believe you see objections?' observed Tchitchikov.
'I? … no, it's not that,' said Manilov, 'but pardon me … I cannot quite grasp it … I, of course, have not been so fortunate as to receive the brilliant education which is perceptible, one may say, in your every movement; I have no great art in expressing myself. Perhaps in this, in what you have just expressed, there is some hidden significance. Perhaps you have expressed yourself in this way as a figure of speech?'
'No,' Tchitchikov interposed. 'No, I mean just what I say, that is, the souls which are really dead.'
Manilov was completely bewildered. He felt he ought to do something, to put some question, but what the devil to ask, he could not tell. He ended at last by blowing out smoke again, not from his mouth but through his nostrils.
'And so if there are no obstacles we might, with God's blessing, proceed to draw up a deed of sale,' said Tchitchikov.
'What … a sale of dead souls?'
'Oh no,' said Tchitchikov, 'we shall write them as living, just as it actually stands in the census list. It is my habit never to depart one jot from the law; though I have had to suffer for that in the service, but pardon me: duty is for me a sacred thing, the law—before the law I am dumb.'
Manilov liked these last words but he had not the faintest inkling of what was meant, and, instead of answering, fell to sucking at his pipe so vigorously that it began to wheeze like a bassoon. It seemed as though he were trying to draw out of it some opinion in regard to this incredible incident; but the pipe wheezed—and nothing more.
'Perhaps you have some hesitation?'
'Oh, indeed, not the slightest! I don't say this as passing any criticism on you at all, but allow me to suggest, will not this undertaking or, to express it more precisely, negotiation—will not this negotiation be inconsistent with the civic code and ultimate welfare of Russia?'
At this point Manilov making a movement with his hand looked very significantly into Tchitchikov's face, displaying in his tightly compressed lips and in all the features of his face an expression more profound than has perhaps ever been seen on the human countenance, unless indeed on that of some extremely wise minister at a critical moment in a most perplexing situation.
But Tchitchikov said that such an undertaking or negotiation would be in no way inconsistent with the civic code and ultimate welfare of Russia, and a minute later he added that the government would indeed gain by it as it would receive the legal fees.
'That is your opinion?'
'It is my opinion that it will be quite right.'
'Oh, if it is quite right that is another thing; I have nothing against it,' said Manilov, and he was completely reassured.
'Now we have only to agree upon the price …'
'The price?' inquired Manilov again, and he stopped. 'Surely you don't imagine I am going to take money for souls which in a certain sense have ended their existence? Since you have conceived this, so to speak, fantastic desire, I am ready for my part to give them to you gratis, and will undertake the legal expenses myself.'
The historian of the foregoing events would be greatly to blame if he omitted to state that the visitor was overcome with delight at the words uttered by Manilov. Sober and dignified as he was, yet he could hardly refrain from executing a caper like a goat's, which, as we all know, is a demonstration confined to moments of acute delight. He wriggled about so violently in his chair that he slit the woollen material that covered the cushion; Manilov himself looked at him in some perplexity. Stirred by gratitude he poured out such a flood of thanks that Manilov was embarrassed, flushed crimson, made a deprecating movement with his head, and at last declared that it was really nothing, that he certainly would be glad to show in some way the heartfelt attraction, the magnetism of soul of which he was sensible; but that dead souls were in a sense utterly worthless.
'Not worthless at all,' said Tchitchikov, pressing his hand.
At this point a very deep sigh escaped him. It seemed that he was inclined to pour out his heart; not without feeling and expression, he uttered at last the following words:
'If only you knew the service that with those apparently worthless souls you are doing to a man of no rank or family! What have I not suffered indeed! Like some ship on the stormy waves … what ill-usage, what persecution have I not endured, what grief have I not known! And for what? For having followed the path of justice, for being true to my conscience, for giving a helping hand to the forlorn widow and orphan in distress! …'
At this point he actually wiped away a tear with his handkerchief.
Manilov was deeply touched. The two friends spent a long time pressing each other's hands and gazing in silence into each other's eyes in which the tears were starting. Manilov would not let go of our hero's hand, but went on pressing it so warmly that the latter did not know how to release it. At last, stealthily withdrawing it, he said that it would not be amiss to draw up the deed of sale as soon as possible, and that it would be as well for him to pay a visit to the town himself; then he picked up his hat and began taking leave.
'What? You want to go already?' said Manilov, suddenly coming to himself and almost frightened.
At that moment Madame Manilov walked into the study.
'Lizanka,' said Manilov with a rather plaintive air, 'Pavel Ivanovitch is leaving us!'
'Because we have wearied Pavel Ivanovitch,' said Madame Manilov.
'Madam! Here,' said Tchitchikov, 'here is where …'—he laid his hand on his heart—'Yes, here the delightful time I have spent with you will be treasured! And, believe me, there could be no greater bliss than to live for ever, if not in the same house, at least in the near neighbourhood.'
'And you know, Pavel Ivanovitch,' said Manilov, who was highly delighted by this idea, 'how nice it would be really, if we could live like this together, under one roof, or in the shade of some elm-tree, discuss philosophy, go deeply into things! …'
'Oh, that would be paradise!' said Tchitchikov with a sigh. 'Farewell, madam,' he went on, kissing Madame Manilov's hand. 'Farewell, my honoured friend. Do not forget my request.'
'Oh, trust me!' answered Manilov, 'I am parting with you for no more than two days!'
They all went into the dining-room.
'Good-bye, sweet children!' said Tchitchikov, seeing Alkides and Themistoclus, who were busy over a wooden soldier which had neither arms nor nose. 'Good-bye, my darlings, you must forgive me for not having brought you any presents, for I must own that I did not even know of your existence; but now I will certainly bring you some when I come again. I will bring you a sword; would you like a sword?'
'Yes,' answered Themistoclus.
'And you a drum. You would like a drum, wouldn't you?' Tchitchikov went on, bending down to Alkides.
'Yes,' Alkides answered in a whisper, hanging his head.
'Very well, I'll bring you a drum, such a lovely drum; it will go: Toorrrr … roo … tra-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta. Good-bye, my dear! Good-bye!' Then he kissed the child on the head and turned to Manilov and his wife with the little laugh with which people commonly insinuate to parents the innocence of their children's desires.
'You really must stay, Pavel Ivanovitch!' said Manilov when they had gone out on the steps. 'Look what storm-clouds.'
'They are only little ones,' answered Tchitchikov.
'And do you know the way to Sobakevitch's?'
'I wanted to ask you about it.'
'If you will allow me, I will tell your coachman at once.'
And Manilov proceeded with the same politeness to explain the way to the coachman.
The coachman, hearing that he had to pass two turnings and take the third, said: 'We shall find it, your honour.'
And Tchitchikov drove away while the gentleman and lady left behind stood for a long time on tiptoe on the steps, sending greetings after him and waving their handkerchiefs.
Manilov watched the chaise disappearing into the distance, and even after it was completely out of sight, still went on standing on the steps, smoking his pipe. At last he went into the house, sat down to the table and gave himself up to meditation, genuinely delighted at having given his visitor pleasure. Then his thoughts passed imperceptibly to other subjects, and goodness knows where they landed at last. He mused on the bliss of a life spent in friendship, thought how nice it would be to live with a friend on some bank of a river, then a bridge began to rise across the river, then an immense house with such a high belvedere that one could see even Moscow from it, and then he dreamed of drinking tea there in the evenings in the open air and discussing agreeable subjects. Then he dreamed that he and Tchitchikov drove in fine carriages to some party, where they charmed every one by the agreeableness of their behaviour, and that the Tsar, hearing of their great friendship, made them both generals, and so passed into goodness knows what visions, such as he could not clearly make out himself. Tchitchikov's strange request suddenly cut across all his dreams. It seemed as though his brain could not assimilate the idea, and however much he turned it about he could not explain it to himself, and so he sat on, smoking his pipe till supper-time.