“Nor I,” said Chichikov. And they both declined resolutely.
“Then at least give me your word that you’ll visit me in town: on the eighth of June I’m giving a dinner for our town dignitaries.”
“For pity’s sake!” exclaimed Platonov. “In this situation, completely ruined—and still giving dinners?”
“What can I do? I must. It’s my duty,” said Khlobuev. “They’ve also invited me.”
“What’s to be done with him?” thought Platonov. He still did not know that in Russia, in Moscow and other cities, there are such wizards to be found, whose life is an inexplicable riddle. He seems to have spent everything, is up to his ears in debt, has no resources anywhere, and the dinner that is being given promises to be the last; and the diners think that by the next day the host will be dragged off to prison. Ten years pass after that—the wizard is still holding out in the world, is up to his ears in debt more than ever, and still gives a dinner in the same way, and everybody thinks it will be the last, and everybody is sure that the next day the host will be dragged off to prison. Khlobuev was such a wizard. Only in Russia can one exist in such a way. Having nothing, he welcomed visitors, gave parties, and even patronized and encouraged all sorts of actors passing through town, boarded them and lodged them in his house. If someone were to peek into the house he had in town, he would never know who the owner was. One day a priest in vestments served a molieben6 there, the next day French actors were having a rehearsal. Once someone unknown to nearly everyone in the house installed himself in the drawing room with his papers and set up an office there, without embarrassing or troubling anyone in the house, as if it were an ordinary thing. Sometimes there was not a crumb in the house for whole days, and sometimes such dinners were given as would satisfy the taste of the most refined gastronome. The host would appear festive, gay, with the bearing of a wealthy gentleman, with the step of a man whose life is spent amid ease and plenty. At times, on the other hand, there were such hard moments that someone else in his place would have hanged or shot himself. But he was saved by a religious sense, which was strangely combined in him with his wayward life. In these hard, bitter moments he would open a book and read the lives of those toilers and sufferers who trained their spirit to rise above sufferings and misfortunes. His soul softened at such times, his spirit became tender, and his eyes filled with tears. And—strange thing!—at such moments unexpected help would always come to him from somewhere. Either one of his old friends would remember him and send him money; or some unknown lady traveler, chancing to hear his story, would, with the impetuous magnanimity of a woman’s heart, send him a generous donation; or some lawsuit, of which he had never heard, would be won in his favor. With reverence, with gratitude, he would then acknowledge the boundless mercy of Providence, have a molieben of thanksgiving served, and—again begin his wayward life.
“I’m sorry for him, really, I am!” Platonov said to Chichikov, when, after saying good-bye, they left him.
“A prodigal son!” said Chichikov. “There’s no point in being sorry for such people.”
And soon they both stopped thinking about him. Platonov, because he looked upon people’s situations lazily and half-sleepily, just as upon everything else in the world. His heart commiserated and was wrung at the sight of others’ suffering, but the impressions somehow did not get deeply impressed on his soul. He did not think about Khlobuev because he also did not think about himself. Chichikov did not think about Khlobuev because all his thoughts were taken up with the acquired property. He counted, calculated, and figured out all the profits of the purchased estate. And however he considered it, whichever side of the deal he looked at, he saw that the purchase was in any case profitable. He might do it in such a way that the estate got mortgaged. He might do it in such a way that only the dead and the runaways got mortgaged. He could also do it so that all the best parts were sold off first, and only then mortgage it. He could also arrange it so that he himself managed the estate and became a landowner after the fashion of Kostanzhoglo, drawing on his advice as a neighbor and benefactor. He could even do it in such a way that the estate was resold into private hands (if he did not feel like managing it himself, of course), and keep the runaway and dead ones for himself. Then another profit presented itself: he could slip away from those parts altogether without paying this Kostanzhoglo the borrowed money. In short, whichever way he turned the deal, he saw that in any case the purchase was profitable. He felt pleasure—pleasure at having now become a landowner, not a fantastic landowner, but a real one, a landowner who already had land, and forests, and people—not dream people, who dwell in imagination, but existing ones. And gradually he began hopping up and down, and rubbing his hands, and humming, and mumbling, and he trumpeted out some march on his fist, putting it to his lips like a trumpet, and even uttered several encouraging words and appellations for himself, in the genre of snookums and sweetie pie. But then, remembering that he was not alone, he suddenly quieted down, and tried to stifle somehow this immoderate fit of inspiration, and when Platonov, taking some of these sounds for speech addressed to him, asked him: “What?”—he replied: “Nothing.”
Only here, looking around him, did he notice that they were driving through a beautiful grove; a comely fence of birches stretched to right and left of them. Between the trees flashed a white stone church. At the end of the street a gentleman appeared, coming to meet them, in a peaked cap, with a knobby stick in his hand. A sleek English hound was running on long legs in front of him.
“Stop!” Platonov said to the coachman, and jumped out of the carriage.
Chichikov also got out of the carriage behind him. They went on foot to meet the gentleman. Yarb had already managed to exchange kisses with the English hound, with whom he had obviously been long acquainted, because he offered his fat muzzle indifferently to receive a lively kiss from Azor (so the English hound was called). The frisky hound named Azor, having kissed Yarb, ran up to Platonov, licked his hands with his frisky tongue, leaped up at Chichikov’s chest intending to lick his lips, did not make it, and, having been pushed away, ran again to Platonov, to try at least to lick him on the ear.
Platon and the gentleman who was coming to meet them came together at that moment and embraced each other.
“For pity’s sake, brother Platon! what are you doing to me?” the gentleman asked animatedly.
“What do you mean?” Platon replied indifferently.
“What, indeed! For three days not a word, not a peep from you! The stableboy brought your horse from Petukh. ‘He went off with some gentleman,’ he said. Well, send word at least: where, why, and how long? For pity’s sake, brother, how could you do such a thing? God knows what I’ve been thinking all these days!”
“Well, what can I do? I forgot,” said Platonov. “We stopped at Konstantin Fyodorovich’s … He sends his respects to you, and sister does, too. Allow me to introduce Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov. Pavel Ivanovich—my brother Vassily. I beg you to love him as you do me.”
Brother Vassily and Chichikov took off their caps and kissed each other.
“Who might this Chichikov be?” thought brother Vassily. “Brother Platon isn’t fastidious about his acquaintances, he certainly did not find out what sort of man he is.” And he looked Chichikov over as far as decency allowed, and saw that he was standing with his head slightly inclined, and had an agreeable look on his face.
For his part, Chichikov also looked brother Vassily over as far as decency allowed. He was shorter than Platon, his hair was darker, and his face far less handsome; but in the features of his face there was much life and animation. One could see that he did not dwell in drowsiness and hibernation.
“You know what I’ve decided, Vassily?” brother Platon said.
“What?” asked Vassily.
“To take a trip around holy Russia with Pavel Ivanovich here: it may just loosen and limber up my spleen.”
“How did you decide so suddenly …?” Vassily started to say, se
riously perplexed by such a decision, and he almost added: “And, what’s more, think of going with a man you’ve never seen before, who may be trash or devil knows what!” And, filled with mistrust, he began studying Chichikov out of the corner of his eye, and saw that he behaved with extraordinary decency, keeping his head agreeably inclined a bit to one side, and with the same respectfully cordial expression on his face, so that there was no way of knowing what sort of man Chichikov was.
Silently the three of them walked down the road, to the left of which there was a white stone church flashing among the trees, and to the right the buildings of the master’s house, which were also beginning to appear among the trees. At last the gates appeared. They entered the courtyard, where stood the old manor house under its high roof. Two enormous lindens growing in the middle of the courtyard covered almost half of it with their shade. Through their low-hanging, bushy branches the walls of the house barely flickered from behind. Under the lindens stood several long benches. Brother Vassily invited Chichikov to be seated. Chichikov sat down, and Platonov sat down. The whole courtyard was filled with the fragrance of flowering lilacs and bird cherry, which, hanging from the garden into the yard on all sides over the very pretty birch fence that surrounded it, looked like a flowering chain or a bead necklace crowning it.
An adroit and deft lad of about seventeen, in a handsome pink cotton shirt, brought and set down before them carafes of water and a variety of many-colored kvasses that fizzed like lemonade. Having set the carafes down before them, he went over to a tree and, taking the hoe that was leaning against it, went to the garden. All the household serfs of the Platonov brothers worked in the garden, all the servants were gardeners, or, better, there were no servants, but the gardeners sometimes performed their duties. Brother Vassily always maintained that one could do without servants. Anyone can bring anything, and it was not worth having a special class of people for that; the Russian man is good, efficient, handsome, nimble, and hardworking only as long as he goes about in a shirt and homespun jacket, but as soon as he gets into a German frock coat, he becomes awkward, uncomely, inefficient, and lazy. He maintained that he keeps himself clean only so long as he wears a shirt and homespun jacket, but as soon as he gets into a German frock coat, he stops changing his shirt, does not go to the bathhouse, sleeps in the frock coat, and under it breeds bedbugs, fleas, and devil knows what. In this he may even have been right. The people on their estate dressed somehow especially neatly and nattily, and one would have had to go far to find such handsome shirts and jackets.
“Would you care for some refreshment?” brother Vassily said to Chichikov, pointing to the carafes. “These are kvasses of our own making; our house has long been famous for them.”
Chichikov poured a glass from the first carafe—just like the linden mead he used to drink in Poland: bubbly as champagne, and it went in a pleasant fizz right up his nose.
“Nectar!” said Chichikov. He drank a glass from another carafe—even better.
“In what direction and to what places are you thinking mainly of going?” brother Vassily asked.
“I’m going,” said Chichikov, rubbing his knee with his hand to accompany the slight rocking of his whole body and inclining his head to one side, “not so much on my own necessity as on another man’s. General Betrishchev, a close friend and, one might say, benefactor, has asked me to visit his relatives. Relatives, of course, are relatives, but it is partly, so to speak, for my own sake as well, for—to say nothing of the benefit in the hemorrhoidal respect—to see the world and the circulation of people—is already in itself, so to speak, a living book and a second education.”
Brother Vassily lapsed into thought. “The man speaks somewhat ornately, but there’s truth in his words,” he thought. “My brother Platon lacks knowledge of people, the world, and life.” After a short silence, he spoke aloud thus:
“I am beginning to think, Platon, that a journey may indeed stir you up. Your mind is hibernating. You’ve simply fallen asleep, and you’ve fallen asleep not from satiety or fatigue, but from a lack of living impressions and sensations. I, for instance, am quite the contrary. I’d very much like not to feel so keenly and not to take so closely to heart all that happens.”
“Who makes you take it all so closely to heart?” said Platon. “You seek out worries and invent anxieties for yourself.”
“Why invent, if there are troubles at every step even without that?” said Vassily. “Have you heard what trick Lenitsyn has played on us? He’s appropriated the waste land where our people celebrate Krasnaya Gorka.”7
“He doesn’t know, so he seized it,” said Platon. “The man’s new here, just come from Petersburg. He must be told, and have it explained to him.”
“He knows, he knows very well. I sent to tell him, but he responded with rudeness.”
“You must go yourself and explain it. Have a personal talk with him.”
“Ah, no. He puts on too many airs. I won’t go to him. You can go if you like.”
“I’d go, but I don’t want to mix in it. He may deceive me and swindle me.”
“I’ll go, if you like,” said Chichikov.
Vassily glanced at him and thought: “He loves going places, this one!”
“Just give me an idea of what sort of man he is,” said Chichikov, “and what it’s about.”
“I’m ashamed to charge you with such an unpleasant mission, because merely to talk with such a man is already an unpleasant mission for me. I must tell you that he is from simple, petty-landowning nobility of our province, got his rank serving in Petersburg, set himself up somehow by marrying someone’s illegitimate daughter, and puts on airs. He sets the tone here. But, thank God, in our province people aren’t so stupid: for us fashion is no order, and Petersburg is no church.”
“Of course,” said Chichikov, “and what is it about?”
“It’s nonsense, in fact. He hasn’t got enough land, so he appropriated our waste land—that is, he reckoned that it wasn’t needed and that the owners had forgotten about it, but it so happens that from time immemorial our peasants have gathered there to celebrate Krasnaya Gorka. For that reason, I’m better prepared to sacrifice other, better land than to give up this piece. Custom is sacred to me.”
“So you’re prepared to let him have other land?”
“I would have been, if he hadn’t acted this way with me; but he wants, as I can see, to do it through the courts. Very well, we’ll see who wins. Though it’s not so clear on the map, there are still witnesses—old people who are living and who remember.”
“Hm!” thought Chichikov. “I see they’re both a bit off.” And he said aloud:
“But it seems to me that the business can be handled peaceably. Everything depends on the mediator. In writ …”*
… …
“… that for you yourself it would also be very profitable to transfer, to my name, for instance, all the dead souls registered on your estates in the last census lists, so that I pay the tax on them. And to avoid causing any offense, you can perform the transfer through a deed of purchase, as if the souls were alive.”
“Well, now!” Lenitsyn thought. “This is something most strange.” And he even pushed his chair back, so entirely puzzled he was.
“I have no doubts that you will agree entirely to this,” Chichikov said, “because this is entirely the same sort of thing we’ve just been talking about. It’ll be completed between solid people, in private, and there’ll be no offense to anyone.”
What to do here? Lenitsyn found himself in a difficult position. He could never have foreseen that an opinion he had just formulated would be so quickly brought to realization. The offer was highly unexpected. Of course, there could be no harm for anyone in this action: the landowners would mortgage these souls anyway, the same as living ones, so there could be no loss for the treasury; the difference was that they would all be in one hand rather than in several. But all the same he was at a loss. He knew the law and was a businessman
—a businessman in a good sense: he would not decide a case unjustly for any bribe. But here he hesitated, not knowing what name to give to this action—was it right or wrong? If someone else had addressed him with such an offer, he would have said: “This is nonsense! trifles! I have no wish to fool around or play with dolls.” But he liked his guest so much, they agreed on so many things with regard to the success of education and learning—how could he refuse? Lenitsyn found himself in a most difficult position.
But at that moment, just as if to help him in his woe, the young, pug-nosed mistress, Lenitsyn’s wife, came into the room, pale, thin, small, and dressed tastefully, like all Petersburg ladies. Following her came a nurse carrying a baby in her arms, the firstborn fruit of the tender love of the recently married couple. Chichikov naturally approached the lady at once and, to say nothing of the proper greeting, simply by the agreeable inclining of his head to one side, disposed her greatly in his favor. Then he ran over to the baby. The baby burst into howls; nevertheless, by means of the words: “Goo, goo, darling!” and by flicking his fingers and the carnelian seal on his watch chain, Chichikov managed to lure him into his arms. Taking him into his arms, he started tossing him up, thereby provoking the baby’s pleasant smile, which made both parents very happy.
Whether from pleasure or from something else, the baby suddenly misbehaved. Lenitsyn’s wife cried out:
“Ah, my God! he’s spoiled your whole tailcoat.”
Chichikov looked: the sleeve of the brand new tailcoat was all spoiled. “Blast it, the cursed little devil!” he muttered vexedly to himself.
The host, the hostess, and the nurse all ran to fetch some eau de cologne; they began wiping him on all sides.
“It’s nothing, nothing at all,” Chichikov was saying. “What can an innocent baby do?” At the same time thinking to himself: “And so well aimed, the cursed little canaille!” “A golden age!” he said when he was well wiped off and the agreeable expression had returned to his face again.