Authors: Nikolai Gogol
Chichikov replied that such cases were common, since nature comprised
many things which even the finest intellect could not compass.
"But allow me to put to you a question," he went on in a tone in which
there was a strange—or, at all events, RATHER a strange—note. For
some unknown reason, also, he glanced over his shoulder. For some
equally unknown reason, Manilov glanced over HIS.
"How long is it," inquired the guest, "since you last rendered a
census return?"
"Oh, a long, long time. In fact, I cannot remember when it was."
"And since then have many of your serfs died?"
"I do not know. To ascertain that I should need to ask my bailiff.
Footman, go and call the bailiff. I think he will be at home to-day."
Before long the bailiff made his appearance. He was a man of under
forty, clean-shaven, clad in a smock, and evidently used to a quiet
life, seeing that his face was of that puffy fullness, and the skin
encircling his slit-like eyes was of that sallow tint, which shows
that the owner of those features is well acquainted with a feather
bed. In a trice it could be seen that he had played his part in life
as all such bailiffs do—that, originally a young serf of elementary
education, he had married some Agashka of a housekeeper or a
mistress's favourite, and then himself become housekeeper, and,
subsequently, bailiff; after which he had proceeded according to the
rules of his tribe—that is to say, he had consorted with and stood in
with the more well-to-do serfs on the estate, and added the poorer
ones to the list of forced payers of obrok, while himself leaving his
bed at nine o'clock in the morning, and, when the samovar had been
brought, drinking his tea at leisure.
"Look here, my good man," said Manilov. "How many of our serfs have
died since the last census revision?"
"How many of them have died? Why, a great many." The bailiff
hiccoughed, and slapped his mouth lightly after doing so.
"Yes, I imagined that to be the case," corroborated Manilov. "In fact,
a VERY great many serfs have died." He turned to Chichikov and
repeated the words.
"How many, for instance?" asked Chichikov.
"Yes; how many?" re-echoed Manilov.
"HOW many?" re-echoed the bailiff. "Well, no one knows the exact
number, for no one has kept any account."
"Quite so," remarked Manilov. "I supposed the death-rate to have been
high, but was ignorant of its precise extent."
"Then would you be so good as to have it computed for me?" said
Chichikov. "And also to have a detailed list of the deaths made out?"
"Yes, I will—a detailed list," agreed Manilov.
"Very well."
The bailiff departed.
"For what purpose do you want it?" inquired Manilov when the bailiff
had gone.
The question seemed to embarrass the guest, for in Chichikov's face
there dawned a sort of tense expression, and it reddened as though its
owner were striving to express something not easy to put into words.
True enough, Manilov was now destined to hear such strange and
unexpected things as never before had greeted human ears.
"You ask me," said Chichikov, "for what purpose I want the list. Well,
my purpose in wanting it is this—that I desire to purchase a few
peasants." And he broke off in a gulp.
"But may I ask HOW you desire to purchase those peasants?" asked
Manilov. "With land, or merely as souls for transferment—that is to
say, by themselves, and without any land?"
"I want the peasants themselves only," replied Chichikov. "And I want
dead ones at that."
"What?—Excuse me, but I am a trifle deaf. Really, your words sound
most strange!"
"All that I am proposing to do," replied Chichikov, "is to purchase
the dead peasants who, at the last census, were returned by you as
alive."
Manilov dropped his pipe on the floor, and sat gaping. Yes, the two
friends who had just been discussing the joys of camaraderie sat
staring at one another like the portraits which, of old, used to hang
on opposite sides of a mirror. At length Manilov picked up his pipe,
and, while doing so, glanced covertly at Chichikov to see whether
there was any trace of a smile to be detected on his lips—whether, in
short, he was joking. But nothing of the sort could be discerned. On
the contrary, Chichikov's face looked graver than usual. Next, Manilov
wondered whether, for some unknown reason, his guest had lost his
wits; wherefore he spent some time in gazing at him with anxious
intentness. But the guest's eyes seemed clear—they contained no spark
of the wild, restless fire which is apt to wander in the eyes of
madmen. All was as it should be. Consequently, in spite of Manilov's
cogitations, he could think of nothing better to do than to sit
letting a stream of tobacco smoke escape from his mouth.
"So," continued Chichikov, "what I desire to know is whether you are
willing to hand over to me—to resign—these actually non-living, but
legally living, peasants; or whether you have any better proposal to
make?"
Manilov felt too confused and confounded to do aught but continue
staring at his interlocutor.
"I think that you are disturbing yourself unnecessarily," was
Chichikov's next remark.
"I? Oh no! Not at all!" stammered Manilov. "Only—pardon me—I do not
quite comprehend you. You see, never has it fallen to my lot to
acquire the brilliant polish which is, so to speak, manifest in your
every movement. Nor have I ever been able to attain the art of
expressing myself well. Consequently, although there is a possibility
that in the—er—utterances which have just fallen from your lips
there may lie something else concealed, it may equally be
that—er—you have been pleased so to express yourself for the sake of
the beauty of the terms wherein that expression found shape?"
"Oh, no," asserted Chichikov. "I mean what I say and no more. My
reference to such of your pleasant souls as are dead was intended to
be taken literally."
Manilov still felt at a loss—though he was conscious that he MUST
do something, he MUST propound some question. But what question? The
devil alone knew! In the end he merely expelled some more tobacco
smoke—this time from his nostrils as well as from his mouth.
"So," went on Chichikov, "if no obstacle stands in the way, we might
as well proceed to the completion of the purchase."
"What? Of the purchase of the dead souls?"
"Of the 'dead' souls? Oh dear no! Let us write them down as LIVING
ones, seeing that that is how they figure in the census returns. Never
do I permit myself to step outside the civil law, great though has
been the harm which that rule has wrought me in my career. In my eyes
an obligation is a sacred thing. In the presence of the law I am
dumb."
These last words reassured Manilov not a little: yet still the meaning
of the affair remained to him a mystery. By way of answer, he fell to
sucking at his pipe with such vehemence that at length the pipe began
to gurgle like a bassoon. It was as though he had been seeking of it
inspiration in the present unheard-of juncture. But the pipe only
gurgled, et praeterea nihil.
"Perhaps you feel doubtful about the proposal?" said Chichikov.
"Not at all," replied Manilov. "But you will, I know, excuse me if I
say (and I say it out of no spirit of prejudice, nor yet as
criticising yourself in any way)—you will, I know, excuse me if I say
that possibly this—er—this, er, SCHEME of yours,
this—er—TRANSACTION of yours, may fail altogether to accord with
the Civil Statutes and Provisions of the Realm?"
And Manilov, with a slight gesture of the head, looked meaningly into
Chichikov's face, while displaying in his every feature, including his
closely-compressed lips, such an expression of profundity as never
before was seen on any human countenance—unless on that of some
particularly sapient Minister of State who is debating some
particularly abstruse problem.
Nevertheless Chichikov rejoined that the kind of scheme or transaction
which he had adumbrated in no way clashed with the Civil Statutes and
Provisions of Russia; to which he added that the Treasury would even
BENEFIT by the enterprise, seeing it would draw therefrom the usual
legal percentage.
"What, then, do you propose?" asked Manilov.
"I propose only what is above-board, and nothing else."
"Then, that being so, it is another matter, and I have nothing to urge
against it," said Manilov, apparently reassured to the full.
"Very well," remarked Chichikov. "Then we need only to agree as to the
price."
"As to the price?" began Manilov, and then stopped. Presently he went
on: "Surely you cannot suppose me capable of taking money for souls
which, in one sense at least, have completed their existence? Seeing
that this fantastic whim of yours (if I may so call it?) has seized
upon you to the extent that it has, I, on my side, shall be ready to
surrender to you those souls UNCONDITIONALLY, and to charge myself
with the whole expenses of the sale."
I should be greatly to blame if I were to omit that, as soon as
Manilov had pronounced these words, the face of his guest became
replete with satisfaction. Indeed, grave and prudent a man though
Chichikov was, he had much ado to refrain from executing a leap that
would have done credit to a goat (an animal which, as we all know,
finds itself moved to such exertions only during moments of the most
ecstatic joy). Nevertheless the guest did at least execute such a
convulsive shuffle that the material with which the cushions of the
chair were covered came apart, and Manilov gazed at him with some
misgiving. Finally Chichikov's gratitude led him to plunge into a
stream of acknowledgement of a vehemence which caused his host to grow
confused, to blush, to shake his head in deprecation, and to end by
declaring that the concession was nothing, and that, his one desire
being to manifest the dictates of his heart and the psychic magnetism
which his friend exercised, he, in short, looked upon the dead souls
as so much worthless rubbish.
"Not at all," replied Chichikov, pressing his hand; after which he
heaved a profound sigh. Indeed, he seemed in the right mood for
outpourings of the heart, for he continued—not without a ring of
emotion in his tone: "If you but knew the service which you have
rendered to an apparently insignificant individual who is devoid both
of family and kindred! For what have I not suffered in my time—I, a
drifting barque amid the tempestuous billows of life? What harryings,
what persecutions, have I not known? Of what grief have I not tasted?
And why? Simply because I have ever kept the truth in view, because
ever I have preserved inviolate an unsullied conscience, because ever
I have stretched out a helping hand to the defenceless widow and the
hapless orphan!" After which outpouring Chichikov pulled out his
handkerchief, and wiped away a brimming tear.
Manilov's heart was moved to the core. Again and again did the two
friends press one another's hands in silence as they gazed into one
another's tear-filled eyes. Indeed, Manilov COULD not let go our
hero's hand, but clasped it with such warmth that the hero in question
began to feel himself at a loss how best to wrench it free: until,
quietly withdrawing it, he observed that to have the purchase
completed as speedily as possible would not be a bad thing; wherefore
he himself would at once return to the town to arrange matters. Taking
up his hat, therefore, he rose to make his adieus.
"What? Are you departing already?" said Manilov, suddenly recovering
himself, and experiencing a sense of misgiving. At that moment his
wife sailed into the room.
"Is Paul Ivanovitch leaving us so soon, dearest Lizanka?" she said
with an air of regret.
"Yes. Surely it must be that we have wearied him?" her spouse replied.
"By no means," asserted Chichikov, pressing his hand to his heart. "In
this breast, madam, will abide for ever the pleasant memory of the
time which I have spent with you. Believe me, I could conceive of no
greater blessing than to reside, if not under the same roof as
yourselves, at all events in your immediate neighbourhood."
"Indeed?" exclaimed Manilov, greatly pleased with the idea. "How
splendid it would be if you DID come to reside under our roof, so
that we could recline under an elm tree together, and talk philosophy,
and delve to the very root of things!"
"Yes, it WOULD be a paradisaical existence!" agreed Chichikov with a
sigh. Nevertheless he shook hands with Madame. "Farewell, sudarina,"
he said. "And farewell to YOU, my esteemed host. Do not forget what
I have requested you to do."
"Rest assured that I will not," responded Manilov. "Only for a couple
of days will you and I be parted from one another."
With that the party moved into the drawing-room.
"Farewell, dearest children," Chichikov went on as he caught sight of
Alkid and Themistocleus, who were playing with a wooden hussar which
lacked both a nose and one arm. "Farewell, dearest pets. Pardon me for
having brought you no presents, but, to tell you the truth, I was not,
until my visit, aware of your existence. However, now that I shall be
coming again, I will not fail to bring you gifts. Themistocleus, to
you I will bring a sword. You would like that, would you not?"
"I should," replied Themistocleus.
"And to you, Alkid, I will bring a drum. That would suit you, would it
not?" And he bowed in Alkid's direction.
"Zeth—a drum," lisped the boy, hanging his head.
"Good! Then a drum it shall be—SUCH a beautiful drum! What a
tur-r-r-ru-ing and a tra-ta-ta-ta-ing you will be able to kick up!
Farewell, my darling." And, kissing the boy's head, he turned to
Manilov and Madame with the slight smile which one assumes before
assuring parents of the guileless merits of their offspring.
"But you had better stay, Paul Ivanovitch," said the father as the
trio stepped out on to the verandah. "See how the clouds are
gathering!"