Authors: Nikolai Gogol
"'Grigori Goiezhai-ne-Doiedesh,'" he went on. "What sort of a man were
YOU, I wonder? Were you a carrier who, having set up a team of three
horses and a tilt waggon, left your home, your native hovel, for ever,
and departed to cart merchandise to market? Was it on the highway that
you surrendered your soul to God, or did your friends first marry you
to some fat, red-faced soldier's daughter; after which your harness
and team of rough, but sturdy, horses caught a highwayman's fancy, and
you, lying on your pallet, thought things over until, willy-nilly, you
felt that you must get up and make for the tavern, thereafter
blundering into an icehole? Ah, our peasant of Russia! Never do you
welcome death when it comes!"
"And you, my friends?" continued Chichikov, turning to the sheet
whereon were inscribed the names of Plushkin's absconded serfs.
"Although you are still alive, what is the good of you? You are
practically dead. Whither, I wonder, have your fugitive feet carried
you? Did you fare hardly at Plushkin's, or was it that your natural
inclinations led you to prefer roaming the wilds and plundering
travellers? Are you, by this time, in gaol, or have you taken service
with other masters for the tillage of their lands? 'Eremei Kariakin,
Nikita Volokita and Anton Volokita (son of the foregoing).' To judge
from your surnames, you would seem to have been born gadabouts
[29]
.
'Popov, household serf.' Probably you are an educated man, good Popov,
and go in for polite thieving, as distinguished from the more vulgar
cut-throat sort. In my mind's eye I seem to see a Captain of Rural
Police challenging you for being without a passport; whereupon you
stake your all upon a single throw. 'To whom do you belong?' asks the
Captain, probably adding to his question a forcible expletive. 'To
such and such a landowner,' stoutly you reply. 'And what are you doing
here?' continues the Captain. 'I have just received permission to go
and earn my obrok,' is your fluent explanation. 'Then where is your
passport?' 'At Miestchanin
[30]
Pimenov's.' 'Pimenov's? Then are you
Pimenov himself?' 'Yes, I am Pimenov himself.' 'He has given you his
passport?' 'No, he has not given me his passport.' 'Come, come!'
shouts the Captain with another forcible expletive. 'You are lying!'
'No, I am not,' is your dogged reply. 'It is only that last night I
could not return him his passport, because I came home late; so I
handed it to Antip Prochorov, the bell-ringer, for him to take care
of.' 'Bell-ringer, indeed! Then HE gave you a passport?' 'No; I did
not receive a passport from him either.' 'What?'—and here the Captain
shouts another expletive—'How dare you keep on lying? Where is YOUR
OWN passport?' 'I had one all right,' you reply cunningly, 'but must
have dropped it somewhere on the road as I came along.' 'And what
about that soldier's coat?' asks the Captain with an impolite
addition. 'Whence did you get it? And what of the priest's cashbox and
copper money?" 'About them I know nothing,' you reply doggedly.
'Never at any time have I committed a theft.' 'Then how is it that the
coat was found at your place?' 'I do not know. Probably some one else
put it there.' 'You rascal, you rascal!' shouts the Captain, shaking
his head, and closing in upon you. 'Put the leg-irons upon him, and
off with him to prison!' 'With pleasure,' you reply as, taking a
snuff-box from your pocket, you offer a pinch to each of the two
gendarmes who are manacling you, while also inquiring how long they
have been discharged from the army, and in what wars they may have
served. And in prison you remain until your case comes on, when the
justice orders you to be removed from Tsarev-Kokshaika to such and
such another prison, and a second justice orders you to be transferred
thence to Vesiegonsk or somewhere else, and you go flitting from gaol
to gaol, and saying each time, as you eye your new habitation, 'The
last place was a good deal cleaner than this one is, and one could
play babki
[31]
there, and stretch one's legs, and see a little
society.'"
"'Abakum Thirov,'" Chichikov went on after a pause. "What of YOU,
brother? Where, and in what capacity, are YOU disporting yourself?
Have you gone to the Volga country, and become bitten with the life of
freedom, and joined the fishermen of the river?"
Here, breaking off, Chichikov relapsed into silent meditation. Of what
was he thinking as he sat there? Was he thinking of the fortunes of
Abakum Thirov, or was he meditating as meditates every Russian when
his thoughts once turn to the joys of an emancipated existence?
"Ah, well!" he sighed, looking at his watch. "It has now gone twelve
o'clock. Why have I so forgotten myself? There is still much to be
done, yet I go shutting myself up and letting my thoughts wander! What
a fool I am!"
So saying, he exchanged his Scottish costume (of a shirt and nothing
else) for attire of a more European nature; after which he pulled
tight the waistcoat over his ample stomach, sprinkled himself with
eau-de-Cologne, tucked his papers under his arm, took his fur cap, and
set out for the municipal offices, for the purpose of completing the
transfer of souls. The fact that he hurried along was not due to a
fear of being late (seeing that the President of the Local Council was
an intimate acquaintance of his, as well as a functionary who could
shorten or prolong an interview at will, even as Homer's Zeus was able
to shorten or to prolong a night or a day, whenever it became
necessary to put an end to the fighting of his favourite heroes, or to
enable them to join battle), but rather to a feeling that he would
like to have the affair concluded as quickly as possible, seeing that,
throughout, it had been an anxious and difficult business. Also, he
could not get rid of the idea that his souls were unsubstantial
things, and that therefore, under the circumstances, his shoulders had
better be relieved of their load with the least possible delay.
Pulling on his cinnamon-coloured, bear-lined overcoat as he went, he
had just stepped thoughtfully into the street when he collided with a
gentleman dressed in a similar coat and an ear-lappeted fur cap. Upon
that the gentleman uttered an exclamation. Behold, it was Manilov! At
once the friends became folded in a strenuous embrace, and remained so
locked for fully five minutes. Indeed, the kisses exchanged were so
vigorous that both suffered from toothache for the greater portion of
the day. Also, Manilov's delight was such that only his nose and lips
remained visible—the eyes completely disappeared. Afterwards he spent
about a quarter of an hour in holding Chichikov's hand and chafing it
vigorously. Lastly, he, in the most pleasant and exquisite terms
possible, intimated to his friend that he had just been on his way to
embrace Paul Ivanovitch; and upon this followed a compliment of the
kind which would more fittingly have been addressed to a lady who was
being asked to accord a partner the favour of a dance. Chichikov had
opened his mouth to reply—though even HE felt at a loss how to
acknowledge what had just been said—when Manilov cut him short by
producing from under his coat a roll of paper tied with red riband.
"What have you there?" asked Chichikov.
"The list of my souls."
"Ah!" And as Chichikov unrolled the document and ran his eye over it
he could not but marvel at the elegant neatness with which it had been
inscribed.
"It is a beautiful piece of writing," he said. "In fact, there will be
no need to make a copy of it. Also, it has a border around its edge!
Who worked that exquisite border?"
"Do not ask me," said Manilov.
"Did YOU do it?"
"No; my wife."
"Dear, dear!" Chichikov cried. "To think that I should have put her to
so much trouble!"
"NOTHING could be too much trouble where Paul Ivanovitch is concerned.
Chichikov bowed his acknowledgements. Next, on learning that he was on
his way to the municipal offices for the purpose of completing the
transfer, Manilov expressed his readiness to accompany him; wherefore
the pair linked arm in arm and proceeded together. Whenever they
encountered a slight rise in the ground—even the smallest unevenness
or difference of level—Manilov supported Chichikov with such energy
as almost to lift him off his feet, while accompanying the service
with a smiling implication that not if HE could help it should Paul
Ivanovitch slip or fall. Nevertheless this conduct appeared to
embarrass Chichikov, either because he could not find any fitting
words of gratitude or because he considered the proceeding tiresome;
and it was with a sense of relief that he debouched upon the square
where the municipal offices—a large, three-storied building of a
chalky whiteness which probably symbolised the purity of the souls
engaged within—were situated. No other building in the square could
vie with them in size, seeing that the remaining edifices consisted
only of a sentry-box, a shelter for two or three cabmen, and a long
hoarding—the latter adorned with the usual bills, posters, and
scrawls in chalk and charcoal. At intervals, from the windows of the
second and third stories of the municipal offices, the incorruptible
heads of certain of the attendant priests of Themis would peer quickly
forth, and as quickly disappear again—probably for the reason that a
superior official had just entered the room. Meanwhile the two friends
ascended the staircase—nay, almost flew up it, since, longing to get
rid of Manilov's ever-supporting arm, Chichikov hastened his steps,
and Manilov kept darting forward to anticipate any possible failure on
the part of his companion's legs. Consequently the pair were
breathless when they reached the first corridor. In passing it may be
remarked that neither corridors nor rooms evinced any of that
cleanliness and purity which marked the exterior of the building, for
such attributes were not troubled about within, and anything that was
dirty remained so, and donned no meritricious, purely external,
disguise. It was as though Themis received her visitors in neglige and
a dressing-gown. The author would also give a description of the
various offices through which our hero passed, were it not that he
(the author) stands in awe of such legal haunts.
Approaching the first desk which he happened to encounter, Chichikov
inquired of the two young officials who were seated at it whether they
would kindly tell him where business relating to serf-indenture was
transacted.
"Of what nature, precisely, IS your business?" countered one of the
youthful officials as he turned himself round.
"I desire to make an application."
"In connection with a purchase?"
"Yes. But, as I say, I should like first to know where I can find the
desk devoted to such business. Is it here or elsewhere?"
"You must state what it is you have bought, and for how much. THEN
we shall be happy to give you the information."
Chichikov perceived that the officials' motive was merely one of
curiosity, as often happens when young tchinovniks desire to cut a
more important and imposing figure than is rightfully theirs.
"Look here, young sirs," he said. "I know for a fact that all serf
business, no matter to what value, is transacted at one desk alone.
Consequently I again request you to direct me to that desk. Of course,
if you do not know your business I can easily ask some one else."
To this the tchinovniks made no reply beyond pointing towards a corner
of the room where an elderly man appeared to be engaged in sorting
some papers. Accordingly Chichikov and Manilov threaded their way in
his direction through the desks; whereupon the elderly man became
violently busy.
"Would you mind telling me," said Chichikov, bowing, "whether this is
the desk for serf affairs?"
The elderly man raised his eyes, and said stiffly:
"This is NOT the desk for serf affairs."
"Where is it, then?"
"In the Serf Department."
"And where might the Serf Department be?"
"In charge of Ivan Antonovitch."
"And where is Ivan Antonovitch?"
The elderly man pointed to another corner of the room; whither
Chichikov and Manilov next directed their steps. As they advanced,
Ivan Antonovitch cast an eye backwards and viewed them askance. Then,
with renewed ardour, he resumed his work of writing.
"Would you mind telling me," said Chichikov, bowing, "whether this is
the desk for serf affairs?"
It appeared as though Ivan Antonovitch had not heard, so completely
did he bury himself in his papers and return no reply. Instantly it
became plain that HE at least was of an age of discretion, and not
one of your jejune chatterboxes and harum-scarums; for, although his
hair was still thick and black, he had long ago passed his fortieth
year. His whole face tended towards the nose—it was what, in common
parlance, is known as a "pitcher-mug."
"Would you mind telling me," repeated Chichikov, "whether this is the
desk for serf affairs?"
"It is that," said Ivan Antonovitch, again lowering his jug-shaped
jowl, and resuming his writing.
"Then I should like to transact the following business. From various
landowners in this canton I have purchased a number of peasants for
transfer. Here is the purchase list, and it needs but to be
registered."
"Have you also the vendors here?"
"Some of them, and from the rest I have obtained powers of attorney."
"And have you your statement of application?"
"Yes. I desire—indeed, it is necessary for me so to do—to hasten
matters a little. Could the affair, therefore, be carried through
to-day?"
"To-day? Oh, dear no!" said Ivan Antonovitch. "Before that can be done
you must furnish me with further proofs that no impediments exist."
"Then, to expedite matters, let me say that Ivan Grigorievitch, the
President of the Council, is a very intimate friend of mine."