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Title: Dead Souls

Author: Nikolai Vasilevich Gogol

Translator: D. J. Hogarth

Release date: October 1, 1997 [eBook #1081]
Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1081

Credits: John Bickers, and David Widger

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DEAD SOULS

By Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol

Translated by D. J. Hogarth
Introduction By John Cournos

CONTENTS

Introduction By John Cournos
PREPARER’S NOTE
INTRODUCTION
AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO THE FIRST PORTION
OF THIS WORK

DEAD SOULS

PART I
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI

PART II
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV

FOOTNOTES:

Introduction By John Cournos
Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol, born at Sorochintsky, Russia, on 31st March
1809. Obtained government post at St. Petersburg and later an appointment
at the university. Lived in Rome from 1836 to 1848. Died on 21st February
1852.

PREPARER’S NOTE
The book this was typed from contains a complete Part I, and a partial
Part II, as it seems only part of Part II survived the adventures described in
the introduction. Where the text notes that pages are missing from the
“original”, this refers to the Russian original, not the translation.
All the foreign words were italicised in the original, a style not preserved
here. Accents and diphthongs have also been left out.

INTRODUCTION
Dead Souls, first published in 1842, is the great prose classic of Russia.
That amazing institution, “the Russian novel,” not only began its career
with this unfinished masterpiece by Nikolai Vasil’evich Gogol, but
practically all the Russian masterpieces that have come since have grown
out of it, like the limbs of a single tree. Dostoieffsky goes so far as to
bestow this tribute upon an earlier work by the same author, a short story
entitled The Cloak; this idea has been wittily expressed by another
compatriot, who says: “We have all issued out of Gogol’s Cloak.”
Dead Souls, which bears the word “Poem” upon the title page of the
original, has been generally compared to Don Quixote and to the Pickwick
Papers, while E. M. Vogue places its author somewhere between Cervantes
and Le Sage. However considerable the influences of Cervantes and
Dickens may have been—the first in the matter of structure, the other in
background, humour, and detail of characterisation—the predominating and
distinguishing quality of the work is undeniably something foreign to both
and quite peculiar to itself; something which, for want of a better term,
might be called the quality of the Russian soul. The English reader familiar
with the works of Dostoieffsky, Turgenev, and Tolstoi, need hardly be told
what this implies; it might be defined in the words of the French critic just
named as “a tendency to pity.” One might indeed go further and say that it
implies a certain tolerance of one’s characters even though they be, in the
conventional sense, knaves, products, as the case might be, of conditions or
circumstance, which after all is the thing to be criticised and not the man.
But pity and tolerance are rare in satire, even in clash with it, producing in
the result a deep sense of tragic humour. It is this that makes of Dead Souls
a unique work, peculiarly Gogolian, peculiarly Russian, and distinct from
its author’s Spanish and English masters.
Still more profound are the contradictions to be seen in the author’s
personal character; and unfortunately they prevented him from completing
his work. The trouble is that he made his art out of life, and when in his
final years he carried his struggle, as Tolstoi did later, back into life, he
repented of all he had written, and in the frenzy of a wakeful night burned

all his manuscripts, including the second part of Dead Souls, only fragments
of which were saved. There was yet a third part to be written. Indeed, the
second part had been written and burned twice. Accounts differ as to why
he had burned it finally. Religious remorse, fury at adverse criticism, and
despair at not reaching ideal perfection are among the reasons given. Again
it is said that he had destroyed the manuscript with the others inadvertently.
The poet Pushkin, who said of Gogol that “behind his laughter you feel
the unseen tears,” was his chief friend and inspirer. It was he who suggested
the plot of Dead Souls as well as the plot of the earlier work The Revisor,
which is almost the only comedy in Russian. The importance of both is their
introduction of the social element in Russian literature, as Prince Kropotkin
points out. Both hold up the mirror to Russian officialdom and the effects it
has produced on the national character. The plot of Dead Souls is simple
enough, and is said to have been suggested by an actual episode.
It was the day of serfdom in Russia, and a man’s standing was often
judged by the numbers of “souls” he possessed. There was a periodical
census of serfs, say once every ten or twenty years. This being the case, an
owner had to pay a tax on every “soul” registered at the last census, though
some of the serfs might have died in the meantime. Nevertheless, the
system had its material advantages, inasmuch as an owner might borrow
money from a bank on the “dead souls” no less than on the living ones. The
plan of Chichikov, Gogol’s hero-villain, was therefore to make a journey
through Russia and buy up the “dead souls,” at reduced rates of course,
saving their owners the government tax, and acquiring for himself a list of
fictitious serfs, which he meant to mortgage to a bank for a considerable
sum. With this money he would buy an estate and some real life serfs, and
make the beginning of a fortune.
Obviously, this plot, which is really no plot at all but merely a ruse to
enable Chichikov to go across Russia in a troika, with Selifan the coachman
as a sort of Russian Sancho Panza, gives Gogol a magnificent opportunity
to reveal his genius as a painter of Russian panorama, peopled with
characteristic native types commonplace enough but drawn in comic relief.
“The comic,” explained the author yet at the beginning of his career, “is
hidden everywhere, only living in the midst of it we are not conscious of it;
but if the artist brings it into his art, on the stage say, we shall roll about
with laughter and only wonder we did not notice it before.” But the comic

in Dead Souls is merely external. Let us see how Pushkin, who loved to
laugh, regarded the work. As Gogol read it aloud to him from the
manuscript the poet grew more and more gloomy and at last cried out:
“God! What a sad country Russia is!” And later he said of it: “Gogol
invents nothing; it is the simple truth, the terrible truth.”
The work on one hand was received as nothing less than an exposure of
all Russia—what would foreigners think of it? The liberal elements,
however, the critical Belinsky among them, welcomed it as a revelation, as
an omen of a freer future. Gogol, who had meant to do a service to Russia
and not to heap ridicule upon her, took the criticisms of the Slavophiles to
heart; and he palliated his critics by promising to bring about in the
succeeding parts of his novel the redemption of Chichikov and the other
“knaves and blockheads.” But the “Westerner” Belinsky and others of the
liberal camp were mistrustful. It was about this time (1847) that Gogol
published his Correspondence with Friends, and aroused a literary
controversy that is alive to this day. Tolstoi is to be found among his
apologists.
Opinions as to the actual significance of Gogol’s masterpiece differ.
Some consider the author a realist who has drawn with meticulous detail a
picture of Russia; others, Merejkovsky among them, see in him a great
symbolist; the very title Dead Souls is taken to describe the living of Russia
as well as its dead. Chichikov himself is now generally regarded as a
universal character. We find an American professor, William Lyon Phelps 1,
of Yale, holding the opinion that “no one can travel far in America without
meeting scores of Chichikovs; indeed, he is an accurate portrait of the
American promoter, of the successful commercial traveller whose success
depends entirely not on the real value and usefulness of his stock-in-trade,
but on his knowledge of human nature and of the persuasive power of his
tongue.” This is also the opinion held by Prince Kropotkin 2, who says:
“Chichikov may buy dead souls, or railway shares, or he may collect funds
for some charitable institution, or look for a position in a bank, but he is an
immortal international type; we meet him everywhere; he is of all lands and
of all times; he but takes different forms to suit the requirements of
nationality and time.”
Again, the work bears an interesting relation to Gogol himself. A
romantic, writing of realities, he was appalled at the commonplaces of life,

at finding no outlet for his love of colour derived from his Cossack
ancestry. He realised that he had drawn a host of “heroes,” “one more
commonplace than another, that there was not a single palliating
circumstance, that there was not a single place where the reader might find
pause to rest and to console himself, and that when he had finished the book
it was as though he had walked out of an oppressive cellar into the open
air.” He felt perhaps inward need to redeem Chichikov; in Merejkovsky’s
opinion he really wanted to save his own soul, but had succeeded only in
losing it. His last years were spent morbidly; he suffered torments and ran
from place to place like one hunted; but really always running from himself.
Rome was his favourite refuge, and he returned to it again and again. In
1848, he made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, but he could find no peace
for his soul. Something of this mood had reflected itself even much earlier
in the Memoirs of a Madman: “Oh, little mother, save your poor son! Look
how they are tormenting him.... There’s no place for him on earth! He’s
being driven!... Oh, little mother, take pity on thy poor child.”
All the contradictions of Gogol’s character are not to be disposed of in a
brief essay. Such a strange combination of the tragic and the comic was
truly seldom seen in one man. He, for one, realised that “it is dangerous to
jest with laughter.” “Everything that I laughed at became sad.” “And
terrible,” adds Merejkovsky. But earlier his humour was lighter, less tinged
with the tragic; in those days Pushkin never failed to be amused by what
Gogol had brought to read to him. Even Revizor (1835), with its tragic
undercurrent, was a trifle compared to Dead Souls, so that one is not
astonished to hear that not only did the Tsar, Nicholas I, give permission to
have it acted, in spite of its being a criticism of official rottenness, but
laughed uproariously, and led the applause. Moreover, he gave Gogol a
grant of money, and asked that its source should not be revealed to the
author lest “he might feel obliged to write from the official point of view.”
Gogol was born at Sorotchinetz, Little Russia, in March 1809. He left
college at nineteen and went to St. Petersburg, where he secured a position
as copying clerk in a government department. He did not keep his position
long, yet long enough to store away in his mind a number of bureaucratic
types which proved useful later. He quite suddenly started for America with
money given to him by his mother for another purpose, but when he got as
far as Lubeck he turned back. He then wanted to become an actor, but his
voice proved not strong enough. Later he wrote a poem which was unkindly

received. As the copies remained unsold, he gathered them all up at the
various shops and burned them in his room.
His next effort, Evenings at the Farm of Dikanka (1831) was more
successful. It was a series of gay and colourful pictures of Ukraine, the land
he knew and loved, and if he is occasionally a little over romantic here and
there, he also achieves some beautifully lyrical passages. Then came
another even finer series called Mirgorod, which won the admiration of
Pushkin. Next he planned a “History of Little Russia” and a “History of the
Middle Ages,” this last work to be in eight or nine volumes. The result of all
this study was a beautiful and short Homeric epic in prose, called Taras
Bulba. His appointment to a professorship in history was a ridiculous
episode in his life. After a brilliant first lecture, in which he had evidently
said all he had to say, he settled to a life of boredom for himself and his
pupils. When he resigned he said joyously: “I am once more a free
Cossack.” Between 1834 and 1835 he produced a new series of stories,
including his famous Cloak, which may be regarded as the legitimate
beginning of the Russian novel.
Gogol knew little about women, who played an equally minor role in his
life and in his books. This may be partly because his personal appearance
was not prepossessing. He is described by a contemporary as “a little man
with legs too short for his body. He walked crookedly; he was clumsy, ill-
dressed, and rather ridiculous-looking, with his long lock of hair flapping
on his forehead, and his large prominent nose.”
From 1835 Gogol spent almost his entire time abroad; some strange
unrest—possibly his Cossack blood—possessed him like a demon, and he
never stopped anywhere very long. After his pilgrimage in 1848 to
Jerusalem, he returned to Moscow, his entire possessions in a little bag;
these consisted of pamphlets, critiques, and newspaper articles mostly
inimical to himself. He wandered about with these from house to house.
Everything he had of value he gave away to the poor. He ceased work
entirely. According to all accounts he spent his last days in praying and
fasting. Visions came to him. His death, which came in 1852, was
extremely fantastic. His last words, uttered in a loud frenzy, were: “A
ladder! Quick, a ladder!” This call for a ladder—“a spiritual ladder,” in the
words of Merejkovsky—had been made on an earlier occasion by a certain

Russian saint, who used almost the same language. “I shall laugh my bitter
laugh” 3 was the inscription placed on Gogol’s grave.
JOHN COURNOS
Evenings on the Farm near the Dikanka, 1829-31; Mirgorod, 1831-33;
Taras Bulba, 1834; Arabesques (includes tales, The Portrait and A
Madman’s Diary), 1831-35; The Cloak, 1835; The Revizor (The Inspector-
General), 1836; Dead Souls, 1842; Correspondence with Friends, 1847.
ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS: Cossack Tales (The Night of Christmas
Eve, Tarass Boolba), trans. by G. Tolstoy, 1860; St. John’s Eve and Other
Stories, trans. by Isabel F. Hapgood, New York, Crowell, 1886; Taras
Bulba: Also St. John’s Eve and Other Stories, London, Vizetelly, 1887;
Taras Bulba, trans. by B. C. Baskerville, London, Scott, 1907; The
Inspector: a Comedy, Calcutta, 1890; The Inspector-General, trans. by A. A.
Sykes, London, Scott, 1892; Revizor, trans. for the Yale Dramatic
Association by Max S. Mandell, New Haven, Conn., 1908; Home Life in
Russia (adaptation of Dead Souls), London, Hurst, 1854; Tchitchikoff’s
Journey’s; or Dead Souls, trans. by Isabel F. Hapgood, New York, Crowell,
1886; Dead Souls, London, Vizetelly, 1887; Dead Souls, London, Maxwell
1887; Meditations on the Divine Liturgy, trans. by L. Alexeieff, London, A.
R. Mowbray and Co., 1913.
LIVES, etc.: (Russian) Kotlyarevsky (N. A.), 1903; Shenrok (V. I.),
Materials for a Biography, 1892; (French) Leger (L.), Nicholas Gogol,
1914.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO THE FIRST
PORTION OF THIS WORK
Second Edition published in 1846

From the Author to the Reader
Reader, whosoever or wheresoever you be, and whatsoever be your
station—whether that of a member of the higher ranks of society or that of a
member of the plainer walks of life—I beg of you, if God shall have given
you any skill in letters, and my book shall fall into your hands, to extend to
me your assistance.
For in the book which lies before you, and which, probably, you have
read in its first edition, there is portrayed a man who is a type taken from
our Russian Empire. This man travels about the Russian land and meets
with folk of every condition—from the nobly-born to the humble toiler.
Him I have taken as a type to show forth the vices and the failings, rather
than the merits and the virtues, of the commonplace Russian individual; and
the characters which revolve around him have also been selected for the
purpose of demonstrating our national weaknesses and shortcomings. As for
men and women of the better sort, I propose to portray them in subsequent
volumes. Probably much of what I have described is improbable and does
not happen as things customarily happen in Russia; and the reason for that
is that for me to learn all that I have wished to do has been impossible, in
that human life is not sufficiently long to become acquainted with even a
hundredth part of what takes place within the borders of the Russian
Empire. Also, carelessness, inexperience, and lack of time have led to my
perpetrating numerous errors and inaccuracies of detail; with the result that
in every line of the book there is something which calls for correction. For
these reasons I beg of you, my reader, to act also as my corrector. Do not
despise the task, for, however superior be your education, and however
lofty your station, and however insignificant, in your eyes, my book, and
however trifling the apparent labour of correcting and commenting upon
that book, I implore you to do as I have said. And you too, O reader of

lowly education and simple status, I beseech you not to look upon yourself
as too ignorant to be able in some fashion, however small, to help me.
Every man who has lived in the world and mixed with his fellow men will
have remarked something which has remained hidden from the eyes of
others; and therefore I beg of you not to deprive me of your comments,
seeing that it cannot be that, should you read my book with attention, you
will have NOTHING to say at some point therein.
For example, how excellent it would be if some reader who is sufficiently
rich in experience and the knowledge of life to be acquainted with the sort
of characters which I have described herein would annotate in detail the
book, without missing a single page, and undertake to read it precisely as
though, laying pen and paper before him, he were first to peruse a few
pages of the work, and then to recall his own life, and the lives of folk with
whom he has come in contact, and everything which he has seen with his
own eyes or has heard of from others, and to proceed to annotate, in so far
as may tally with his own experience or otherwise, what is set forth in the
book, and to jot down the whole exactly as it stands pictured to his memory,
and, lastly, to send me the jottings as they may issue from his pen, and to
continue doing so until he has covered the entire work! Yes, he would
indeed do me a vital service! Of style or beauty of expression he would
need to take no account, for the value of a book lies in its truth and its
actuality rather than in its wording. Nor would he need to consider my
feelings if at any point he should feel minded to blame or to upbraid me, or
to demonstrate the harm rather than the good which has been done through
any lack of thought or verisimilitude of which I have been guilty. In short,
for anything and for everything in the way of criticism I should be thankful.
Also, it would be an excellent thing if some reader in the higher walks of
life, some person who stands remote, both by life and by education, from
the circle of folk which I have pictured in my book, but who knows the life
of the circle in which he himself revolves, would undertake to read my
work in similar fashion, and methodically to recall to his mind any
members of superior social classes whom he has met, and carefully to
observe whether there exists any resemblance between one such class and
another, and whether, at times, there may not be repeated in a higher sphere
what is done in a lower, and likewise to note any additional fact in the same
connection which may occur to him (that is to say, any fact pertaining to the
higher ranks of society which would seem to confirm or to disprove his

conclusions), and, lastly, to record that fact as it may have occurred within
his own experience, while giving full details of persons (of individual
manners, tendencies, and customs) and also of inanimate surroundings (of
dress, furniture, fittings of houses, and so forth). For I need knowledge of
the classes in question, which are the flower of our people. In fact, this very
reason—the reason that I do not yet know Russian life in all its aspects, and
in the degree to which it is necessary for me to know it in order to become a
successful author—is what has, until now, prevented me from publishing
any subsequent volumes of this story.
Again, it would be an excellent thing if some one who is endowed with
the faculty of imagining and vividly picturing to himself the various
situations wherein a character may be placed, and of mentally following up
a character’s career in one field and another—by this I mean some one who
possesses the power of entering into and developing the ideas of the author
whose work he may be reading—would scan each character herein
portrayed, and tell me how each character ought to have acted at a given
juncture, and what, to judge from the beginnings of each character, ought to
have become of that character later, and what new circumstances might be
devised in connection therewith, and what new details might
advantageously be added to those already described. Honestly can I say that
to consider these points against the time when a new edition of my book
may be published in a different and a better form would give me the
greatest possible pleasure.
One thing in particular would I ask of any reader who may be willing to
give me the benefit of his advice. That is to say, I would beg of him to
suppose, while recording his remarks, that it is for the benefit of a man in
no way his equal in education, or similar to him in tastes and ideas, or
capable of apprehending criticisms without full explanation appended, that
he is doing so. Rather would I ask such a reader to suppose that before him
there stands a man of incomparably inferior enlightenment and schooling—
a rude country bumpkin whose life, throughout, has been passed in
retirement—a bumpkin to whom it is necessary to explain each
circumstance in detail, while never forgetting to be as simple of speech as
though he were a child, and at every step there were a danger of employing
terms beyond his understanding. Should these precautions be kept
constantly in view by any reader undertaking to annotate my book, that

reader’s remarks will exceed in weight and interest even his own
expectations, and will bring me very real advantage.
Thus, provided that my earnest request be heeded by my readers, and that
among them there be found a few kind spirits to do as I desire, the
following is the manner in which I would request them to transmit their
notes for my consideration. Inscribing the package with my name, let them
then enclose that package in a second one addressed either to the Rector of
the University of St. Petersburg or to Professor Shevirev of the University
of Moscow, according as the one or the other of those two cities may be the
nearer to the sender.
Lastly, while thanking all journalists and litterateurs for their previously
published criticisms of my book—criticisms which, in spite of a spice of
that intemperance and prejudice which is common to all humanity, have
proved of the greatest use both to my head and to my heart—I beg of such
writers again to favour me with their reviews. For in all sincerity I can
assure them that whatsoever they may be pleased to say for my
improvement and my instruction will be received by me with naught but
gratitude.

DEAD SOULS

PART I

CHAPTER I

To the door of an inn in the provincial town of N. there drew up a smart
britchka—a light spring-carriage of the sort affected by bachelors, retired
lieutenant-colonels, staff-captains, land-owners possessed of about a
hundred souls, and, in short, all persons who rank as gentlemen of the
intermediate category. In the britchka was seated such a gentleman—a man
who, though not handsome, was not ill-favoured, not over-fat, and not over-
thin. Also, though not over-elderly, he was not over-young. His arrival
produced no stir in the town, and was accompanied by no particular
incident, beyond that a couple of peasants who happened to be standing at
the door of a dramshop exchanged a few comments with reference to the
equipage rather than to the individual who was seated in it. “Look at that
carriage,” one of them said to the other. “Think you it will be going as far as
Moscow?” “I think it will,” replied his companion. “But not as far as
Kazan, eh?” “No, not as far as Kazan.” With that the conversation ended.
Presently, as the britchka was approaching the inn, it was met by a young
man in a pair of very short, very tight breeches of white dimity, a quasi-
fashionable frockcoat, and a dickey fastened with a pistol-shaped bronze
tie-pin. The young man turned his head as he passed the britchka and eyed
it attentively; after which he clapped his hand to his cap (which was in
danger of being removed by the wind) and resumed his way. On the vehicle
reaching the inn door, its occupant found standing there to welcome him the
polevoi, or waiter, of the establishment—an individual of such nimble and
brisk movement that even to distinguish the character of his face was
impossible. Running out with a napkin in one hand and his lanky form clad
in a tailcoat, reaching almost to the nape of his neck, he tossed back his
locks, and escorted the gentleman upstairs, along a wooden gallery, and so

to the bedchamber which God had prepared for the gentleman’s reception.
The said bedchamber was of quite ordinary appearance, since the inn
belonged to the species to be found in all provincial towns—the species
wherein, for two roubles a day, travellers may obtain a room swarming with
black-beetles, and communicating by a doorway with the apartment
adjoining. True, the doorway may be blocked up with a wardrobe; yet
behind it, in all probability, there will be standing a silent, motionless
neighbour whose ears are burning to learn every possible detail concerning
the latest arrival. The inn’s exterior corresponded with its interior. Long,
and consisting only of two storeys, the building had its lower half destitute
of stucco; with the result that the dark-red bricks, originally more or less
dingy, had grown yet dingier under the influence of atmospheric changes.
As for the upper half of the building, it was, of course, painted the usual tint
of unfading yellow. Within, on the ground floor, there stood a number of
benches heaped with horse-collars, rope, and sheepskins; while the
window-seat accommodated a sbitentshik 4, cheek by jowl with a samovar 5
—the latter so closely resembling the former in appearance that, but for the
fact of the samovar possessing a pitch-black lip, the samovar and the
sbitentshik might have been two of a pair.
During the traveller’s inspection of his room his luggage was brought
into the apartment. First came a portmanteau of white leather whose
raggedness indicated that the receptacle had made several previous
journeys. The bearers of the same were the gentleman’s coachman, Selifan
(a little man in a large overcoat), and the gentleman’s valet, Petrushka—the
latter a fellow of about thirty, clad in a worn, over-ample jacket which
formerly had graced his master’s shoulders, and possessed of a nose and a
pair of lips whose coarseness communicated to his face rather a sullen
expression. Behind the portmanteau came a small dispatch-box of redwood,
lined with birch bark, a boot-case, and (wrapped in blue paper) a roast fowl;
all of which having been deposited, the coachman departed to look after his
horses, and the valet to establish himself in the little dark anteroom or
kennel where already he had stored a cloak, a bagful of livery, and his own
peculiar smell. Pressing the narrow bedstead back against the wall, he
covered it with the tiny remnant of mattress—a remnant as thin and flat
(perhaps also as greasy) as a pancake—which he had managed to beg of the
landlord of the establishment.

While the attendants had been thus setting things straight the gentleman
had repaired to the common parlour. The appearance of common parlours of
the kind is known to every one who travels. Always they have varnished
walls which, grown black in their upper portions with tobacco smoke, are,
in their lower, grown shiny with the friction of customers’ backs—more
especially with that of the backs of such local tradesmen as, on market-
days, make it their regular practice to resort to the local hostelry for a glass
of tea. Also, parlours of this kind invariably contain smutty ceilings, an
equally smutty chandelier, a number of pendent shades which jump and
rattle whenever the waiter scurries across the shabby oilcloth with a trayful
of glasses (the glasses looking like a flock of birds roosting by the
seashore), and a selection of oil paintings. In short, there are certain objects
which one sees in every inn. In the present case the only outstanding feature
of the room was the fact that in one of the paintings a nymph was portrayed
as possessing breasts of a size such as the reader can never in his life have
beheld. A similar caricaturing of nature is to be noted in the historical
pictures (of unknown origin, period, and creation) which reach us—
sometimes through the instrumentality of Russian magnates who profess to
be connoisseurs of art—from Italy; owing to the said magnates having
made such purchases solely on the advice of the couriers who have escorted
them.
To resume, however—our traveller removed his cap, and divested his
neck of a parti-coloured woollen scarf of the kind which a wife makes for
her husband with her own hands, while accompanying the gift with
interminable injunctions as to how best such a garment ought to be folded.
True, bachelors also wear similar gauds, but, in their case, God alone knows
who may have manufactured the articles! For my part, I cannot endure
them. Having unfolded the scarf, the gentleman ordered dinner, and whilst
the various dishes were being got ready—cabbage soup, a pie several weeks
old, a dish of marrow and peas, a dish of sausages and cabbage, a roast
fowl, some salted cucumber, and the sweet tart which stands perpetually
ready for use in such establishments; whilst, I say, these things were either
being warmed up or brought in cold, the gentleman induced the waiter to
retail certain fragments of tittle-tattle concerning the late landlord of the
hostelry, the amount of income which the hostelry produced, and the
character of its present proprietor. To the last-mentioned inquiry the waiter
returned the answer invariably given in such cases—namely, “My master is

a terribly hard man, sir.” Curious that in enlightened Russia so many people
cannot even take a meal at an inn without chattering to the attendant and
making free with him! Nevertheless not ALL the questions which the
gentleman asked were aimless ones, for he inquired who was Governor of
the town, who President of the Local Council, and who Public Prosecutor.
In short, he omitted no single official of note, while asking also (though
with an air of detachment) the most exact particulars concerning the
landowners of the neighbourhood. Which of them, he inquired, possessed
serfs, and how many of them? How far from the town did those landowners
reside? What was the character of each landowner, and was he in the habit
of paying frequent visits to the town? The gentleman also made searching
inquiries concerning the hygienic condition of the countryside. Was there,
he asked, much sickness about—whether sporadic fever, fatal forms of
ague, smallpox, or what not? Yet, though his solicitude concerning these
matters showed more than ordinary curiosity, his bearing retained its gravity
unimpaired, and from time to time he blew his nose with portentous
fervour. Indeed, the manner in which he accomplished this latter feat was
marvellous in the extreme, for, though that member emitted sounds equal to
those of a trumpet in intensity, he could yet, with his accompanying air of
guileless dignity, evoke the waiter’s undivided respect—so much so that,
whenever the sounds of the nose reached that menial’s ears, he would shake
back his locks, straighten himself into a posture of marked solicitude, and
inquire afresh, with head slightly inclined, whether the gentleman happened
to require anything further. After dinner the guest consumed a cup of coffee,
and then, seating himself upon the sofa, with, behind him, one of those
wool-covered cushions which, in Russian taverns, resemble nothing so
much as a cobblestone or a brick, fell to snoring; whereafter, returning with
a start to consciousness, he ordered himself to be conducted to his room,
flung himself at full length upon the bed, and once more slept soundly for a
couple of hours. Aroused, eventually, by the waiter, he, at the latter’s
request, inscribed a fragment of paper with his name, his surname, and his
rank (for communication, in accordance with the law, to the police): and on
that paper the waiter, leaning forward from the corridor, read, syllable by
syllable: “Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov, Collegiate Councillor—Landowner—
Travelling on Private Affairs.” The waiter had just time to accomplish this
feat before Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov set forth to inspect the town.
Apparently the place succeeded in satisfying him, and, to tell the truth, it

was at least up to the usual standard of our provincial capitals. Where the
staring yellow of stone edifices did not greet his eye he found himself
confronted with the more modest grey of wooden ones; which, consisting,
for the most part, of one or two storeys (added to the range of attics which
provincial architects love so well), looked almost lost amid the expanses of
street and intervening medleys of broken or half-finished partition-walls. At
other points evidence of more life and movement was to be seen, and here
the houses stood crowded together and displayed dilapidated, rain-blurred
signboards whereon boots or cakes or pairs of blue breeches inscribed
“Arshavski, Tailor,” and so forth, were depicted. Over a shop containing
hats and caps was written “Vassili Thedorov, Foreigner”; while, at another
spot, a signboard portrayed a billiard table and two players—the latter clad
in frockcoats of the kind usually affected by actors whose part it is to enter
the stage during the closing act of a piece, even though, with arms sharply
crooked and legs slightly bent, the said billiard players were taking the most
careful aim, but succeeding only in making abortive strokes in the air. Each
emporium of the sort had written over it: “This is the best establishment of
its kind in the town.” Also, al fresco in the streets there stood tables heaped
with nuts, soap, and gingerbread (the latter but little distinguishable from
the soap), and at an eating-house there was displayed the sign of a plump
fish transfixed with a gaff. But the sign most frequently to be discerned was
the insignia of the State, the double-headed eagle (now replaced, in this
connection, with the laconic inscription “Dramshop”). As for the paving of
the town, it was uniformly bad.
The gentleman peered also into the municipal gardens, which contained
only a few sorry trees that were poorly selected, requiring to be propped
with oil-painted, triangular green supports, and able to boast of a height no
greater than that of an ordinary walking-stick. Yet recently the local paper
had said (apropos of a gala) that, “Thanks to the efforts of our Civil
Governor, the town has become enriched with a pleasaunce full of
umbrageous, spaciously-branching trees. Even on the most sultry day they
afford agreeable shade, and indeed gratifying was it to see the hearts of our
citizens panting with an impulse of gratitude as their eyes shed tears in
recognition of all that their Governor has done for them!”
Next, after inquiring of a gendarme as to the best ways and means of
finding the local council, the local law-courts, and the local Governor,
should he (Chichikov) have need of them, the gentleman went on to inspect

the river which ran through the town. En route he tore off a notice affixed to
a post, in order that he might the more conveniently read it after his return
to the inn. Also, he bestowed upon a lady of pleasant exterior who, escorted
by a footman laden with a bundle, happened to be passing along a wooden
sidewalk a prolonged stare. Lastly, he threw around him a comprehensive
glance (as though to fix in his mind the general topography of the place)
and betook himself home. There, gently aided by the waiter, he ascended
the stairs to his bedroom, drank a glass of tea, and, seating himself at the
table, called for a candle; which having been brought him, he produced
from his pocket the notice, held it close to the flame, and conned its tenour
—slightly contracting his right eye as he did so. Yet there was little in the
notice to call for remark. All that it said was that shortly one of Kotzebue’s 6
plays would be given, and that one of the parts in the play was to be taken
by a certain Monsieur Poplevin, and another by a certain Mademoiselle
Ziablova, while the remaining parts were to be filled by a number of less
important personages. Nevertheless the gentleman perused the notice with
careful attention, and even jotted down the prices to be asked for seats for
the performance. Also, he remarked that the bill had been printed in the
press of the Provincial Government. Next, he turned over the paper, in order
to see if anything further was to be read on the reverse side; but, finding
nothing there, he refolded the document, placed it in the box which served
him as a receptacle for odds and ends, and brought the day to a close with a
portion of cold veal, a bottle of pickles, and a sound sleep.
The following day he devoted to paying calls upon the various municipal
officials—a first, and a very respectful, visit being paid to the Governor.
This personage turned out to resemble Chichikov himself in that he was
neither fat nor thin. Also, he wore the riband of the order of Saint Anna
about his neck, and was reported to have been recommended also for the
star. For the rest, he was large and good-natured, and had a habit of amusing
himself with occasional spells of knitting. Next, Chichikov repaired to the
Vice-Governor’s, and thence to the house of the Public Prosecutor, to that
of the President of the Local Council, to that of the Chief of Police, to that
of the Commissioner of Taxes, and to that of the local Director of State
Factories. True, the task of remembering every big-wig in this world of ours
is not a very easy one; but at least our visitor displayed the greatest activity
in his work of paying calls, seeing that he went so far as to pay his respects
also to the Inspector of the Municipal Department of Medicine and to the

City Architect. Thereafter he sat thoughtfully in his britchka—plunged in
meditation on the subject of whom else it might be well to visit. However,
not a single magnate had been neglected, and in conversation with his hosts
he had contrived to flatter each separate one. For instance to the Governor
he had hinted that a stranger, on arriving in his, the Governor’s province,
would conceive that he had reached Paradise, so velvety were the roads.
“Governors who appoint capable subordinates,” had said Chichikov, “are
deserving of the most ample meed of praise.” Again, to the Chief of Police
our hero had passed a most gratifying remark on the subject of the local
gendarmery; while in his conversation with the Vice-Governor and the
President of the Local Council (neither of whom had, as yet, risen above the
rank of State Councillor) he had twice been guilty of the gaucherie of
addressing his interlocutors with the title of “Your Excellency”—a blunder
which had not failed to delight them. In the result the Governor had invited
him to a reception the same evening, and certain other officials had
followed suit by inviting him, one of them to dinner, a second to a tea-party,
and so forth, and so forth.
Of himself, however, the traveller had spoken little; or, if he had spoken
at any length, he had done so in a general sort of way and with marked
modesty. Indeed, at moments of the kind his discourse had assumed
something of a literary vein, in that invariably he had stated that, being a
worm of no account in the world, he was deserving of no consideration at
the hands of his fellows; that in his time he had undergone many strange
experiences; that subsequently he had suffered much in the cause of Truth;
that he had many enemies seeking his life; and that, being desirous of rest,
he was now engaged in searching for a spot wherein to dwell—wherefore,
having stumbled upon the town in which he now found himself, he had
considered it his bounden duty to evince his respect for the chief authorities
of the place. This, and no more, was all that, for the moment, the town
succeeded in learning about the new arrival. Naturally he lost no time in
presenting himself at the Governor’s evening party. First, however, his
preparations for that function occupied a space of over two hours, and
necessitated an attention to his toilet of a kind not commonly seen. That is
to say, after a brief post-prandial nap he called for soap and water, and spent
a considerable period in the task of scrubbing his cheeks (which, for the
purpose, he supported from within with his tongue) and then of drying his
full, round face, from the ears downwards, with a towel which he took from

the waiter’s shoulder. Twice he snorted into the waiter’s countenance as he
did this, and then he posted himself in front of the mirror, donned a false
shirt-front, plucked out a couple of hairs which were protruding from his
nose, and appeared vested in a frockcoat of bilberry-coloured check.
Thereafter driving through broad streets sparsely lighted with lanterns, he
arrived at the Governor’s residence to find it illuminated as for a ball.
Barouches with gleaming lamps, a couple of gendarmes posted before the
doors, a babel of postillions’ cries—nothing of a kind likely to be
impressive was wanting; and, on reaching the salon, the visitor actually
found himself obliged to close his eyes for a moment, so strong was the
mingled sheen of lamps, candles, and feminine apparel. Everything seemed
suffused with light, and everywhere, flitting and flashing, were to be seen
black coats—even as on a hot summer’s day flies revolve around a sugar
loaf while the old housekeeper is cutting it into cubes before the open
window, and the children of the house crowd around her to watch the
movements of her rugged hands as those members ply the smoking pestle;
and airy squadrons of flies, borne on the breeze, enter boldly, as though free
of the house, and, taking advantage of the fact that the glare of the sunshine
is troubling the old lady’s sight, disperse themselves over broken and
unbroken fragments alike, even though the lethargy induced by the
opulence of summer and the rich shower of dainties to be encountered at
every step has induced them to enter less for the purpose of eating than for
that of showing themselves in public, of parading up and down the sugar
loaf, of rubbing both their hindquarters and their fore against one another,
of cleaning their bodies under the wings, of extending their forelegs over
their heads and grooming themselves, and of flying out of the window again
to return with other predatory squadrons. Indeed, so dazed was Chichikov
that scarcely did he realise that the Governor was taking him by the arm and
presenting him to his (the Governor’s) lady. Yet the newly-arrived guest
kept his head sufficiently to contrive to murmur some such compliment as
might fittingly come from a middle-aged individual of a rank neither
excessively high nor excessively low. Next, when couples had been formed
for dancing and the remainder of the company found itself pressed back
against the walls, Chichikov folded his arms, and carefully scrutinised the
dancers. Some of the ladies were dressed well and in the fashion, while the
remainder were clad in such garments as God usually bestows upon a
provincial town. Also here, as elsewhere, the men belonged to two separate

and distinct categories; one of which comprised slender individuals who,
flitting around the ladies, were scarcely to be distinguished from denizens
of the metropolis, so carefully, so artistically, groomed were their whiskers,
so presentable their oval, clean-shaven faces, so easy the manner of their
dancing attendance upon their womenfolk, so glib their French conversation
as they quizzed their female companions. As for the other category, it
comprised individuals who, stout, or of the same build as Chichikov (that is
to say, neither very portly nor very lean), backed and sidled away from the
ladies, and kept peering hither and thither to see whether the Governor’s
footmen had set out green tables for whist. Their features were full and
plump, some of them had beards, and in no case was their hair curled or
waved or arranged in what the French call “the devil-may-care” style. On
the contrary, their heads were either close-cropped or brushed very smooth,
and their faces were round and firm. This category represented the more
respectable officials of the town. In passing, I may say that in business
matters fat men always prove superior to their leaner brethren; which is
probably the reason why the latter are mostly to be found in the Political
Police, or acting as mere ciphers whose existence is a purely hopeless, airy,
trivial one. Again, stout individuals never take a back seat, but always a
front one, and, wheresoever it be, they sit firmly, and with confidence, and
decline to budge even though the seat crack and bend with their weight. For
comeliness of exterior they care not a rap, and therefore a dress coat sits
less easily on their figures than is the case with figures of leaner
individuals. Yet invariably fat men amass the greater wealth. In three years’
time a thin man will not have a single serf whom he has left unpledged;
whereas—well, pray look at a fat man’s fortunes, and what will you see?
First of all a suburban villa, and then a larger suburban villa, and then a
villa close to a town, and lastly a country estate which comprises every
amenity! That is to say, having served both God and the State, the stout
individual has won universal respect, and will end by retiring from
business, reordering his mode of life, and becoming a Russian landowner—
in other words, a fine gentleman who dispenses hospitality, lives in comfort
and luxury, and is destined to leave his property to heirs who are purposing
to squander the same on foreign travel.
That the foregoing represents pretty much the gist of Chichikov’s
reflections as he stood watching the company I will not attempt to deny.
And of those reflections the upshot was that he decided to join himself to

the stouter section of the guests, among whom he had already recognised
several familiar faces—namely, those of the Public Prosecutor (a man with
beetling brows over eyes which seemed to be saying with a wink, “Come
into the next room, my friend, for I have something to say to you”—though,
in the main, their owner was a man of grave and taciturn habit), of the
Postmaster (an insignificant-looking individual, yet a would-be wit and a
philosopher), and of the President of the Local Council (a man of much
amiability and good sense). These three personages greeted Chichikov as an
old acquaintance, and to their salutations he responded with a sidelong, yet
a sufficiently civil, bow. Also, he became acquainted with an extremely
unctuous and approachable landowner named Manilov, and with a
landowner of more uncouth exterior named Sobakevitch—the latter of
whom began the acquaintance by treading heavily upon Chichikov’s toes,
and then begging his pardon. Next, Chichikov received an offer of a “cut
in” at whist, and accepted the same with his usual courteous inclination of
the head. Seating themselves at a green table, the party did not rise
therefrom till supper time; and during that period all conversation between
the players became hushed, as is the custom when men have given
themselves up to a really serious pursuit. Even the Postmaster—a talkative
man by nature—had no sooner taken the cards into his hands than he
assumed an expression of profound thought, pursed his lips, and retained
this attitude unchanged throughout the game. Only when playing a court
card was it his custom to strike the table with his fist, and to exclaim (if the
card happened to be a queen), “Now, old popadia 7!” and (if the card
happened to be a king), “Now, peasant of Tambov!” To which ejaculations
invariably the President of the Local Council retorted, “Ah, I have him by
the ears, I have him by the ears!” And from the neighbourhood of the table
other strong ejaculations relative to the play would arise, interposed with
one or another of those nicknames which participants in a game are apt to
apply to members of the various suits. I need hardly add that, the game
over, the players fell to quarrelling, and that in the dispute our friend joined,
though so artfully as to let every one see that, in spite of the fact that he was
wrangling, he was doing so only in the most amicable fashion possible.
Never did he say outright, “You played the wrong card at such and such a
point.” No, he always employed some such phrase as, “You permitted
yourself to make a slip, and thus afforded me the honour of covering your
deuce.” Indeed, the better to keep in accord with his antagonists, he kept

offering them his silver-enamelled snuff-box (at the bottom of which lay a
couple of violets, placed there for the sake of their scent). In particular did
the newcomer pay attention to landowners Manilov and Sobakevitch; so
much so that his haste to arrive on good terms with them led to his leaving
the President and the Postmaster rather in the shade. At the same time,
certain questions which he put to those two landowners evinced not only
curiosity, but also a certain amount of sound intelligence; for he began by
asking how many peasant souls each of them possessed, and how their
affairs happened at present to be situated, and then proceeded to enlighten
himself also as their standing and their families. Indeed, it was not long
before he had succeeded in fairly enchanting his new friends. In particular
did Manilov—a man still in his prime, and possessed of a pair of eyes
which, sweet as sugar, blinked whenever he laughed—find himself unable
to make enough of his enchanter. Clasping Chichikov long and fervently by
the hand, he besought him to do him, Manilov, the honour of visiting his
country house (which he declared to lie at a distance of not more than
fifteen versts from the boundaries of the town); and in return Chichikov
averred (with an exceedingly affable bow and a most sincere handshake)
that he was prepared not only to fulfil his friend’s behest, but also to look
upon the fulfilling of it as a sacred duty. In the same way Sobakevitch said
to him laconically: “And do you pay ME a visit,” and then proceeded to
shuffle a pair of boots of such dimensions that to find a pair to correspond
with them would have been indeed difficult—more especially at the present
day, when the race of epic heroes is beginning to die out in Russia.
Next day Chichikov dined and spent the evening at the house of the Chief
of Police—a residence where, three hours after dinner, every one sat down
to whist, and remained so seated until two o’clock in the morning. On this
occasion Chichikov made the acquaintance of, among others, a landowner
named Nozdrev—a dissipated little fellow of thirty who had no sooner
exchanged three or four words with his new acquaintance than he began to
address him in the second person singular. Yet although he did the same to
the Chief of Police and the Public Prosecutor, the company had no sooner
seated themselves at the card-table than both the one and the other of these
functionaries started to keep a careful eye upon Nozdrev’s tricks, and to
watch practically every card which he played. The following evening
Chichikov spent with the President of the Local Council, who received his
guests—even though the latter included two ladies—in a greasy dressing-

gown. Upon that followed an evening at the Vice-Governor’s, a large dinner
party at the house of the Commissioner of Taxes, a smaller dinner-party at
the house of the Public Prosecutor (a very wealthy man), and a subsequent
reception given by the Mayor. In short, not an hour of the day did
Chichikov find himself forced to spend at home, and his return to the inn
became necessary only for the purposes of sleeping. Somehow or other he
had landed on his feet, and everywhere he figured as an experienced man of
the world. No matter what the conversation chanced to be about, he always
contrived to maintain his part in the same. Did the discourse turn upon
horse-breeding, upon horse-breeding he happened to be peculiarly well-
qualified to speak. Did the company fall to discussing well-bred dogs, at
once he had remarks of the most pertinent kind possible to offer. Did the
company touch upon a prosecution which had recently been carried out by
the Excise Department, instantly he showed that he too was not wholly
unacquainted with legal affairs. Did an opinion chance to be expressed
concerning billiards, on that subject too he was at least able to avoid
committing a blunder. Did a reference occur to virtue, concerning virtue he
hastened to deliver himself in a way which brought tears to every eye. Did
the subject in hand happen to be the distilling of brandy—well, that was a
matter concerning which he had the soundest of knowledge. Did any one
happen to mention Customs officials and inspectors, from that moment he
expatiated as though he too had been both a minor functionary and a major.
Yet a remarkable fact was the circumstance that he always contrived to
temper his omniscience with a certain readiness to give way, a certain
ability so to keep a rein upon himself that never did his utterances become
too loud or too soft, or transcend what was perfectly befitting. In a word, he
was always a gentleman of excellent manners, and every official in the
place felt pleased when he saw him enter the door. Thus the Governor gave
it as his opinion that Chichikov was a man of excellent intentions; the
Public Prosecutor, that he was a good man of business; the Chief of
Gendarmery, that he was a man of education; the President of the Local
Council, that he was a man of breeding and refinement; and the wife of the
Chief of Gendarmery, that his politeness of behaviour was equalled only by
his affability of bearing. Nay, even Sobakevitch—who as a rule never spoke
well of ANY ONE—said to his lanky wife when, on returning late from the
town, he undressed and betook himself to bed by her side: “My dear, this
evening, after dining with the Chief of Police, I went on to the Governor’s,

and met there, among others, a certain Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov, who is a
Collegiate Councillor and a very pleasant fellow.” To this his spouse replied
“Hm!” and then dealt him a hearty kick in the ribs.
Such were the flattering opinions earned by the newcomer to the town;
and these opinions he retained until the time when a certain speciality of
his, a certain scheme of his (the reader will learn presently what it was),
plunged the majority of the townsfolk into a sea of perplexity.

CHAPTER II

For more than two weeks the visitor lived amid a round of evening
parties and dinners; wherefore he spent (as the saying goes) a very pleasant
time. Finally he decided to extend his visits beyond the urban boundaries by
going and calling upon landowners Manilov and Sobakevitch, seeing that
he had promised on his honour to do so. Yet what really incited him to this
may have been a more essential cause, a matter of greater gravity, a purpose
which stood nearer to his heart, than the motive which I have just given;
and of that purpose the reader will learn if only he will have the patience to
read this prefatory narrative (which, lengthy though it be, may yet develop
and expand in proportion as we approach the denouement with which the
present work is destined to be crowned).
One evening, therefore, Selifan the coachman received orders to have the
horses harnessed in good time next morning; while Petrushka received
orders to remain behind, for the purpose of looking after the portmanteau
and the room. In passing, the reader may care to become more fully
acquainted with the two serving-men of whom I have spoken. Naturally,
they were not persons of much note, but merely what folk call characters of
secondary, or even of tertiary, importance. Yet, despite the fact that the
springs and the thread of this romance will not DEPEND upon them, but
only touch upon them, and occasionally include them, the author has a
passion for circumstantiality, and, like the average Russian, such a desire
for accuracy as even a German could not rival. To what the reader already
knows concerning the personages in hand it is therefore necessary to add

that Petrushka usually wore a cast-off brown jacket of a size too large for
him, as also that he had (according to the custom of individuals of his
calling) a pair of thick lips and a very prominent nose. In temperament he
was taciturn rather than loquacious, and he cherished a yearning for self-
education. That is to say, he loved to read books, even though their contents
came alike to him whether they were books of heroic adventure or mere
grammars or liturgical compendia. As I say, he perused every book with an
equal amount of attention, and, had he been offered a work on chemistry,
would have accepted that also. Not the words which he read, but the mere
solace derived from the act of reading, was what especially pleased his
mind; even though at any moment there might launch itself from the page
some devil-sent word whereof he could make neither head nor tail. For the
most part, his task of reading was performed in a recumbent position in the
anteroom; which circumstance ended by causing his mattress to become as
ragged and as thin as a wafer. In addition to his love of poring over books,
he could boast of two habits which constituted two other essential features
of his character—namely, a habit of retiring to rest in his clothes (that is to
say, in the brown jacket above-mentioned) and a habit of everywhere
bearing with him his own peculiar atmosphere, his own peculiar smell—a
smell which filled any lodging with such subtlety that he needed but to
make up his bed anywhere, even in a room hitherto untenanted, and to drag
thither his greatcoat and other impedimenta, for that room at once to assume
an air of having been lived in during the past ten years. Nevertheless,
though a fastidious, and even an irritable, man, Chichikov would merely
frown when his nose caught this smell amid the freshness of the morning,
and exclaim with a toss of his head: “The devil only knows what is up with
you! Surely you sweat a good deal, do you not? The best thing you can do
is to go and take a bath.” To this Petrushka would make no reply, but,
approaching, brush in hand, the spot where his master’s coat would be
pendent, or starting to arrange one and another article in order, would strive
to seem wholly immersed in his work. Yet of what was he thinking as he
remained thus silent? Perhaps he was saying to himself: “My master is a
good fellow, but for him to keep on saying the same thing forty times over
is a little wearisome.” Only God knows and sees all things; wherefore for a
mere human being to know what is in the mind of a servant while his
master is scolding him is wholly impossible. However, no more need be
said about Petrushka. On the other hand, Coachman Selifan—

But here let me remark that I do not like engaging the reader’s attention
in connection with persons of a lower class than himself; for experience has
taught me that we do not willingly familiarise ourselves with the lower
orders—that it is the custom of the average Russian to yearn exclusively for
information concerning persons on the higher rungs of the social ladder. In
fact, even a bowing acquaintance with a prince or a lord counts, in his eyes,
for more than do the most intimate of relations with ordinary folk. For the
same reason the author feels apprehensive on his hero’s account, seeing that
he has made that hero a mere Collegiate Councillor—a mere person with
whom Aulic Councillors might consort, but upon whom persons of the
grade of full General 8 would probably bestow one of those glances proper
to a man who is cringing at their august feet. Worse still, such persons of the
grade of General are likely to treat Chichikov with studied negligence—and
to an author studied negligence spells death.
However, in spite of the distressfulness of the foregoing possibilities, it is
time that I returned to my hero. After issuing, overnight, the necessary
orders, he awoke early, washed himself, rubbed himself from head to foot
with a wet sponge (a performance executed only on Sundays—and the day
in question happened to be a Sunday), shaved his face with such care that
his cheeks issued of absolutely satin-like smoothness and polish, donned
first his bilberry-coloured, spotted frockcoat, and then his bearskin
overcoat, descended the staircase (attended, throughout, by the waiter) and
entered his britchka. With a loud rattle the vehicle left the inn-yard, and
issued into the street. A passing priest doffed his cap, and a few urchins in
grimy shirts shouted, “Gentleman, please give a poor orphan a trifle!”
Presently the driver noticed that a sturdy young rascal was on the point of
climbing onto the splashboard; wherefore he cracked his whip and the
britchka leapt forward with increased speed over the cobblestones. At last,
with a feeling of relief, the travellers caught sight of macadam ahead, which
promised an end both to the cobblestones and to sundry other annoyances.
And, sure enough, after his head had been bumped a few more times against
the boot of the conveyance, Chichikov found himself bowling over softer
ground. On the town receding into the distance, the sides of the road began
to be varied with the usual hillocks, fir trees, clumps of young pine, trees
with old, scarred trunks, bushes of wild juniper, and so forth. Presently
there came into view also strings of country villas which, with their carved
supports and grey roofs (the latter looking like pendent, embroidered

tablecloths), resembled, rather, bundles of old faggots. Likewise the
customary peasants, dressed in sheepskin jackets, could be seen yawning on
benches before their huts, while their womenfolk, fat of feature and swathed
of bosom, gazed out of upper windows, and the windows below displayed,
here a peering calf, and there the unsightly jaws of a pig. In short, the view
was one of the familiar type. After passing the fifteenth verst-stone
Chichikov suddenly recollected that, according to Manilov, fifteen versts
was the exact distance between his country house and the town; but the
sixteenth verst stone flew by, and the said country house was still nowhere
to be seen. In fact, but for the circumstance that the travellers happened to
encounter a couple of peasants, they would have come on their errand in
vain. To a query as to whether the country house known as Zamanilovka
was anywhere in the neighbourhood the peasants replied by doffing their
caps; after which one of them who seemed to boast of a little more
intelligence than his companion, and who wore a wedge-shaped beard,
made answer:
“Perhaps you mean Manilovka—not ZAmanilovka?”
“Yes, yes—Manilovka.”
“Manilovka, eh? Well, you must continue for another verst, and then you
will see it straight before you, on the right.”
“On the right?” re-echoed the coachman.
“Yes, on the right,” affirmed the peasant. “You are on the proper road for
Manilovka, but ZAmanilovka—well, there is no such place. The house you
mean is called Manilovka because Manilovka is its name; but no house at
all is called ZAmanilovka. The house you mean stands there, on that hill,
and is a stone house in which a gentleman lives, and its name is Manilovka;
but ZAmanilovka does not stand hereabouts, nor ever has stood.”
So the travellers proceeded in search of Manilovka, and, after driving an
additional two versts, arrived at a spot whence there branched off a by-road.
Yet two, three, or four versts of the by-road had been covered before they
saw the least sign of a two-storied stone mansion. Then it was that
Chichikov suddenly recollected that, when a friend has invited one to visit
his country house, and has said that the distance thereto is fifteen versts, the
distance is sure to turn out to be at least thirty.
Not many people would have admired the situation of Manilov’s abode,
for it stood on an isolated rise and was open to every wind that blew. On the

slope of the rise lay closely-mown turf, while, disposed here and there, after
the English fashion, were flower-beds containing clumps of lilac and yellow
acacia. Also, there were a few insignificant groups of slender-leaved,
pointed-tipped birch trees, with, under two of the latter, an arbour having a
shabby green cupola, some blue-painted wooden supports, and the
inscription “This is the Temple of Solitary Thought.” Lower down the slope
lay a green-coated pond—green-coated ponds constitute a frequent
spectacle in the gardens of Russian landowners; and, lastly, from the foot of
the declivity there stretched a line of mouldy, log-built huts which, for some
obscure reason or another, our hero set himself to count. Up to two hundred
or more did he count, but nowhere could he perceive a single leaf of
vegetation or a single stick of timber. The only thing to greet the eye was
the logs of which the huts were constructed. Nevertheless the scene was to a
certain extent enlivened by the spectacle of two peasant women who, with
clothes picturesquely tucked up, were wading knee-deep in the pond and
dragging behind them, with wooden handles, a ragged fishing-net, in the
meshes of which two crawfish and a roach with glistening scales were
entangled. The women appeared to have cause of dispute between
themselves—to be rating one another about something. In the background,
and to one side of the house, showed a faint, dusky blur of pinewood, and
even the weather was in keeping with the surroundings, since the day was
neither clear nor dull, but of the grey tint which may be noted in uniforms
of garrison soldiers which have seen long service. To complete the picture,
a cock, the recognised harbinger of atmospheric mutations, was present;
and, in spite of the fact that a certain connection with affairs of gallantry
had led to his having had his head pecked bare by other cocks, he flapped a
pair of wings—appendages as bare as two pieces of bast—and crowed
loudly.
As Chichikov approached the courtyard of the mansion he caught sight of
his host (clad in a green frock coat) standing on the verandah and pressing
one hand to his eyes to shield them from the sun and so get a better view of
the approaching carriage. In proportion as the britchka drew nearer and
nearer to the verandah, the host’s eyes assumed a more and more delighted
expression, and his smile a broader and broader sweep.
“Paul Ivanovitch!” he exclaimed when at length Chichikov leapt from the
vehicle. “Never should I have believed that you would have remembered
us!”

The two friends exchanged hearty embraces, and Manilov then
conducted his guest to the drawing-room. During the brief time that they are
traversing the hall, the anteroom, and the dining-room, let me try to say
something concerning the master of the house. But such an undertaking
bristles with difficulties—it promises to be a far less easy task than the
depicting of some outstanding personality which calls but for a wholesale
dashing of colours upon the canvas—the colours of a pair of dark, burning
eyes, a pair of dark, beetling brows, a forehead seamed with wrinkles, a
black, or a fiery-red, cloak thrown backwards over the shoulder, and so
forth, and so forth. Yet, so numerous are Russian serf owners that, though
careful scrutiny reveals to one’s sight a quantity of outre peculiarities, they
are, as a class, exceedingly difficult to portray, and one needs to strain one’s
faculties to the utmost before it becomes possible to pick out their variously
subtle, their almost invisible, features. In short, one needs, before doing
this, to carry out a prolonged probing with the aid of an insight sharpened in
the acute school of research.
Only God can say what Manilov’s real character was. A class of men
exists whom the proverb has described as “men unto themselves, neither
this nor that—neither Bogdan of the city nor Selifan of the village.” And to
that class we had better assign also Manilov. Outwardly he was presentable
enough, for his features were not wanting in amiability, but that amiability
was a quality into which there entered too much of the sugary element, so
that his every gesture, his every attitude, seemed to connote an excess of
eagerness to curry favour and cultivate a closer acquaintance. On first
speaking to the man, his ingratiating smile, his flaxen hair, and his blue eyes
would lead one to say, “What a pleasant, good-tempered fellow he seems!”
yet during the next moment or two one would feel inclined to say nothing at
all, and, during the third moment, only to say, “The devil alone knows what
he is!” And should, thereafter, one not hasten to depart, one would
inevitably become overpowered with the deadly sense of ennui which
comes of the intuition that nothing in the least interesting is to be looked
for, but only a series of wearisome utterances of the kind which are apt to
fall from the lips of a man whose hobby has once been touched upon. For
every man HAS his hobby. One man’s may be sporting dogs; another man’s
may be that of believing himself to be a lover of music, and able to sound
the art to its inmost depths; another’s may be that of posing as a connoisseur
of recherche cookery; another’s may be that of aspiring to play roles of a

kind higher than nature has assigned him; another’s (though this is a more
limited ambition) may be that of getting drunk, and of dreaming that he is
edifying both his friends, his acquaintances, and people with whom he has
no connection at all by walking arm-in-arm with an Imperial aide-de-camp;
another’s may be that of possessing a hand able to chip corners off aces and
deuces of diamonds; another’s may be that of yearning to set things straight
—in other words, to approximate his personality to that of a stationmaster
or a director of posts. In short, almost every man has his hobby or his
leaning; yet Manilov had none such, for at home he spoke little, and spent
the greater part of his time in meditation—though God only knows what
that meditation comprised! Nor can it be said that he took much interest in
the management of his estate, for he never rode into the country, and the
estate practically managed itself. Whenever the bailiff said to him, “It might
be well to have such-and-such a thing done,” he would reply, “Yes, that is
not a bad idea,” and then go on smoking his pipe—a habit which he had
acquired during his service in the army, where he had been looked upon as
an officer of modesty, delicacy, and refinement. “Yes, it is NOT a bad idea,”
he would repeat. Again, whenever a peasant approached him and, rubbing
the back of his neck, said “Barin, may I have leave to go and work for
myself, in order that I may earn my obrok 9?” he would snap out, with pipe
in mouth as usual, “Yes, go!” and never trouble his head as to whether the
peasant’s real object might not be to go and get drunk. True, at intervals he
would say, while gazing from the verandah to the courtyard, and from the
courtyard to the pond, that it would be indeed splendid if a carriage drive
could suddenly materialise, and the pond as suddenly become spanned with
a stone bridge, and little shops as suddenly arise whence pedlars could
dispense the petty merchandise of the kind which peasantry most need. And
at such moments his eyes would grow winning, and his features assume an
expression of intense satisfaction. Yet never did these projects pass beyond
the stage of debate. Likewise there lay in his study a book with the
fourteenth page permanently turned down. It was a book which he had been
reading for the past two years! In general, something seemed to be wanting
in the establishment. For instance, although the drawing-room was filled
with beautiful furniture, and upholstered in some fine silken material which
clearly had cost no inconsiderable sum, two of the chairs lacked any
covering but bast, and for some years past the master had been accustomed
to warn his guests with the words, “Do not sit upon these chairs; they are

not yet ready for use.” Another room contained no furniture at all, although,
a few days after the marriage, it had been said: “My dear, to-morrow let us
set about procuring at least some TEMPORARY furniture for this room.”
Also, every evening would see placed upon the drawing-room table a fine
bronze candelabrum, a statuette representative of the Three Graces, a tray
inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and a rickety, lop-sided copper invalide. Yet of
the fact that all four articles were thickly coated with grease neither the
master of the house nor the mistress nor the servants seemed to entertain the
least suspicion. At the same time, Manilov and his wife were quite satisfied
with each other. More than eight years had elapsed since their marriage, yet
one of them was for ever offering his or her partner a piece of apple or a
bonbon or a nut, while murmuring some tender something which voiced a
whole-hearted affection. “Open your mouth, dearest”—thus ran the formula
—“and let me pop into it this titbit.” You may be sure that on such
occasions the “dearest mouth” parted its lips most graciously! For their
mutual birthdays the pair always contrived some “surprise present” in the
shape of a glass receptacle for tooth-powder, or what not; and as they sat
together on the sofa he would suddenly, and for some unknown reason, lay
aside his pipe, and she her work (if at the moment she happened to be
holding it in her hands) and husband and wife would imprint upon one
another’s cheeks such a prolonged and languishing kiss that during its
continuance you could have smoked a small cigar. In short, they were what
is known as “a very happy couple.” Yet it may be remarked that a
household requires other pursuits to be engaged in than lengthy embracings
and the preparing of cunning “surprises.” Yes, many a function calls for
fulfilment. For instance, why should it be thought foolish or low to
superintend the kitchen? Why should care not be taken that the storeroom
never lacks supplies? Why should a housekeeper be allowed to thieve? Why
should slovenly and drunken servants exist? Why should a domestic staff be
suffered in indulge in bouts of unconscionable debauchery during its leisure
time? Yet none of these things were thought worthy of consideration by
Manilov’s wife, for she had been gently brought up, and gentle nurture, as
we all know, is to be acquired only in boarding schools, and boarding
schools, as we know, hold the three principal subjects which constitute the
basis of human virtue to be the French language (a thing indispensable to
the happiness of married life), piano-playing (a thing wherewith to beguile
a husband’s leisure moments), and that particular department of

housewifery which is comprised in the knitting of purses and other
“surprises.” Nevertheless changes and improvements have begun to take
place, since things now are governed more by the personal inclinations and
idiosyncracies of the keepers of such establishments. For instance, in some
seminaries the regimen places piano-playing first, and the French language
second, and then the above department of housewifery; while in other
seminaries the knitting of “surprises” heads the list, and then the French
language, and then the playing of pianos—so diverse are the systems in
force! None the less, I may remark that Madame Manilov—
But let me confess that I always shrink from saying too much about
ladies. Moreover, it is time that we returned to our heroes, who, during the
past few minutes, have been standing in front of the drawing-room door,
and engaged in urging one another to enter first.
“Pray be so good as not to inconvenience yourself on my account,” said
Chichikov. “I will follow YOU.”
“No, Paul Ivanovitch—no! You are my guest.” And Manilov pointed
towards the doorway.
“Make no difficulty about it, I pray,” urged Chichikov. “I beg of you to
make no difficulty about it, but to pass into the room.”
“Pardon me, I will not. Never could I allow so distinguished and so
welcome a guest as yourself to take second place.”
“Why call me ‘distinguished,’ my dear sir? I beg of you to proceed.”
“Nay; be YOU pleased to do so.”
“And why?”
“For the reason which I have stated.” And Manilov smiled his very
pleasantest smile.
Finally the pair entered simultaneously and sideways; with the result that
they jostled one another not a little in the process.
“Allow me to present to you my wife,” continued Manilov. “My dear—
Paul Ivanovitch.”
Upon that Chichikov caught sight of a lady whom hitherto he had
overlooked, but who, with Manilov, was now bowing to him in the
doorway. Not wholly of unpleasing exterior, she was dressed in a well-
fitting, high-necked morning dress of pale-coloured silk; and as the visitor

entered the room her small white hands threw something upon the table and
clutched her embroidered skirt before rising from the sofa where she had
been seated. Not without a sense of pleasure did Chichikov take her hand
as, lisping a little, she declared that she and her husband were equally
gratified by his coming, and that, of late, not a day had passed without her
husband recalling him to mind.
“Yes,” affirmed Manilov; “and every day SHE has said to ME: ‘Why
does not your friend put in an appearance?’ ‘Wait a little dearest,’ I have
always replied. ‘’Twill not be long now before he comes.’ And you HAVE
come, you HAVE honoured us with a visit, you HAVE bestowed upon us a
treat—a treat destined to convert this day into a gala day, a true birthday of
the heart.”
The intimation that matters had reached the point of the occasion being
destined to constitute a “true birthday of the heart” caused Chichikov to
become a little confused; wherefore he made modest reply that, as a matter
of fact, he was neither of distinguished origin nor distinguished rank.
“Ah, you ARE so,” interrupted Manilov with his fixed and engaging
smile. “You are all that, and more.”
“How like you our town?” queried Madame. “Have you spent an
agreeable time in it?”
“Very,” replied Chichikov. “The town is an exceedingly nice one, and I
have greatly enjoyed its hospitable society.”
“And what do you think of our Governor?”
“Yes; IS he not a most engaging and dignified personage?” added
Manilov.
“He is all that,” assented Chichikov. “Indeed, he is a man worthy of the
greatest respect. And how thoroughly he performs his duty according to his
lights! Would that we had more like him!”
“And the tactfulness with which he greets every one!” added Manilov,
smiling, and half-closing his eyes, like a cat which is being tickled behind
the ears.
“Quite so,” assented Chichikov. “He is a man of the most eminent civility
and approachableness. And what an artist! Never should I have thought he
could have worked the marvellous household samplers which he has done!

Some specimens of his needlework which he showed me could not well
have been surpassed by any lady in the land!”
“And the Vice-Governor, too—he is a nice man, is he not?” inquired
Manilov with renewed blinkings of the eyes.
“Who? The Vice-Governor? Yes, a most worthy fellow!” replied
Chichikov.
“And what of the Chief of Police? Is it not a fact that he too is in the
highest degree agreeable?”
“Very agreeable indeed. And what a clever, well-read individual! With
him and the Public Prosecutor and the President of the Local Council I
played whist until the cocks uttered their last morning crow. He is a most
excellent fellow.”
“And what of his wife?” queried Madame Manilov. “Is she not a most
gracious personality?”
“One of the best among my limited acquaintance,” agreed Chichikov.
Nor were the President of the Local Council and the Postmaster
overlooked; until the company had run through the whole list of urban
officials. And in every case those officials appeared to be persons of the
highest possible merit.
“Do you devote your time entirely to your estate?” asked Chichikov, in
his turn.
“Well, most of it,” replied Manilov; “though also we pay occasional
visits to the town, in order that we may mingle with a little well-bred
society. One grows a trifle rusty if one lives for ever in retirement.”
“Quite so,” agreed Chichikov.
“Yes, quite so,” capped Manilov. “At the same time, it would be a
different matter if the neighbourhood were a GOOD one—if, for example,
one had a friend with whom one could discuss manners and polite
deportment, or engage in some branch of science, and so stimulate one’s
wits. For that sort of thing gives one’s intellect an airing. It, it—” At a loss
for further words, he ended by remarking that his feelings were apt to carry
him away; after which he continued with a gesture: “What I mean is that,
were that sort of thing possible, I, for one, could find the country and an
isolated life possessed of great attractions. But, as matters stand, such a

thing is NOT possible. All that I can manage to do is, occasionally, to read a
little of A Son of the Fatherland.”
With these sentiments Chichikov expressed entire agreement: adding that
nothing could be more delightful than to lead a solitary life in which there
should be comprised only the sweet contemplation of nature and the
intermittent perusal of a book.
“Nay, but even THAT were worth nothing had not one a friend with
whom to share one’s life,” remarked Manilov.
“True, true,” agreed Chichikov. “Without a friend, what are all the
treasures in the world? ‘Possess not money,’ a wise man has said, ‘but
rather good friends to whom to turn in case of need.’”
“Yes, Paul Ivanovitch,” said Manilov with a glance not merely sweet, but
positively luscious—a glance akin to the mixture which even clever
physicians have to render palatable before they can induce a hesitant patient
to take it. “Consequently you may imagine what happiness—what
PERFECT happiness, so to speak—the present occasion has brought me,
seeing that I am permitted to converse with you and to enjoy your
conversation.”
“But WHAT of my conversation?” replied Chichikov. “I am an
insignificant individual, and, beyond that, nothing.”
“Oh, Paul Ivanovitch!” cried the other. “Permit me to be frank, and to say
that I would give half my property to possess even a PORTION of the
talents which you possess.”
“On the contrary, I should consider it the highest honour in the world if
—”
The lengths to which this mutual outpouring of soul would have
proceeded had not a servant entered to announce luncheon must remain a
mystery.
“I humbly invite you to join us at table,” said Manilov. “Also, you will
pardon us for the fact that we cannot provide a banquet such as is to be
obtained in our metropolitan cities? We partake of simple fare, according to
Russian custom—we confine ourselves to shtchi 10, but we do so with a
single heart. Come, I humbly beg of you.”
After another contest for the honour of yielding precedence, Chichikov
succeeded in making his way (in zigzag fashion) to the dining-room, where

they found awaiting them a couple of youngsters. These were Manilov’s
sons, and boys of the age which admits of their presence at table, but
necessitates the continued use of high chairs. Beside them was their tutor,
who bowed politely and smiled; after which the hostess took her seat before
her soup plate, and the guest of honour found himself esconsed between her
and the master of the house, while the servant tied up the boys’ necks in
bibs.
“What charming children!” said Chichikov as he gazed at the pair. “And
how old are they?”
“The eldest is eight,” replied Manilov, “and the younger one attained the
age of six yesterday.”
“Themistocleus,” went on the father, turning to his first-born, who was
engaged in striving to free his chin from the bib with which the footman
had encircled it. On hearing this distinctly Greek name (to which, for some
unknown reason, Manilov always appended the termination “eus”),
Chichikov raised his eyebrows a little, but hastened, the next moment, to
restore his face to a more befitting expression.
“Themistocleus,” repeated the father, “tell me which is the finest city in
France.”
Upon this the tutor concentrated his attention upon Themistocleus, and
appeared to be trying hard to catch his eye. Only when Themistocleus had
muttered “Paris” did the preceptor grow calmer, and nod his head.
“And which is the finest city in Russia?” continued Manilov.
Again the tutor’s attitude became wholly one of concentration.
“St. Petersburg,” replied Themistocleus.
“And what other city?”
“Moscow,” responded the boy.
“Clever little dear!” burst out Chichikov, turning with an air of surprise to
the father. “Indeed, I feel bound to say that the child evinces the greatest
possible potentialities.”
“You do not know him fully,” replied the delighted Manilov. “The
amount of sharpness which he possesses is extraordinary. Our younger one,
Alkid, is not so quick; whereas his brother—well, no matter what he may
happen upon (whether upon a cowbug or upon a water-beetle or upon

anything else), his little eyes begin jumping out of his head, and he runs to
catch the thing, and to inspect it. For HIM I am reserving a diplomatic post.
Themistocleus,” added the father, again turning to his son, “do you wish to
become an ambassador?”
“Yes, I do,” replied Themistocleus, chewing a piece of bread and
wagging his head from side to side.
At this moment the lacquey who had been standing behind the future
ambassador wiped the latter’s nose; and well it was that he did so, since
otherwise an inelegant and superfluous drop would have been added to the
soup. After that the conversation turned upon the joys of a quiet life—
though occasionally it was interrupted by remarks from the hostess on the
subject of acting and actors. Meanwhile the tutor kept his eyes fixed upon
the speakers’ faces; and whenever he noticed that they were on the point of
laughing he at once opened his mouth, and laughed with enthusiasm.
Probably he was a man of grateful heart who wished to repay his employers
for the good treatment which he had received. Once, however, his features
assumed a look of grimness as, fixing his eyes upon his vis-a-vis, the boys,
he tapped sternly upon the table. This happened at a juncture when
Themistocleus had bitten Alkid on the ear, and the said Alkid, with
frowning eyes and open mouth, was preparing himself to sob in piteous
fashion; until, recognising that for such a proceeding he might possibly be
deprived of his plate, he hastened to restore his mouth to its original
expression, and fell tearfully to gnawing a mutton bone—the grease from
which had soon covered his cheeks.
Every now and again the hostess would turn to Chichikov with the
words, “You are eating nothing—you have indeed taken little;” but
invariably her guest replied: “Thank you, I have had more than enough. A
pleasant conversation is worth all the dishes in the world.”
At length the company rose from table. Manilov was in high spirits, and,
laying his hand upon his guest’s shoulder, was on the point of conducting
him to the drawing-room, when suddenly Chichikov intimated to him, with
a meaning look, that he wished to speak to him on a very important matter.
“That being so,” said Manilov, “allow me to invite you into my study.”
And he led the way to a small room which faced the blue of the forest.
“This is my sanctum,” he added.

“What a pleasant apartment!” remarked Chichikov as he eyed it carefully.
And, indeed, the room did not lack a certain attractiveness. The walls were
painted a sort of blueish-grey colour, and the furniture consisted of four
chairs, a settee, and a table—the latter of which bore a few sheets of
writing-paper and the book of which I have before had occasion to speak.
But the most prominent feature of the room was tobacco, which appeared in
many different guises—in packets, in a tobacco jar, and in a loose heap
strewn about the table. Likewise, both window sills were studded with little
heaps of ash, arranged, not without artifice, in rows of more or less tidiness.
Clearly smoking afforded the master of the house a frequent means of
passing the time.
“Permit me to offer you a seat on this settee,” said Manilov. “Here you
will be quieter than you would be in the drawing-room.”
“But I should prefer to sit upon this chair.”
“I cannot allow that,” objected the smiling Manilov. “The settee is
specially reserved for my guests. Whether you choose or no, upon it you
MUST sit.”
Accordingly Chichikov obeyed.
“And also let me hand you a pipe.”
“No, I never smoke,” answered Chichikov civilly, and with an assumed
air of regret.
“And why?” inquired Manilov—equally civilly, but with a regret that
was wholly genuine.
“Because I fear that I have never quite formed the habit, owing to my
having heard that a pipe exercises a desiccating effect upon the system.”
“Then allow me to tell you that that is mere prejudice. Nay, I would even
go so far as to say that to smoke a pipe is a healthier practice than to take
snuff. Among its members our regiment numbered a lieutenant—a most
excellent, well-educated fellow—who was simply INCAPABLE of
removing his pipe from his mouth, whether at table or (pardon me) in other
places. He is now forty, yet no man could enjoy better health than he has
always done.”
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!”
“They are only small ones,” replied Chichikov.
“And you know your way to Sobakevitch’s?”
“No, I do not, and should be glad if you would direct me.”
“If you like I will tell your coachman.” And in very civil fashion Manilov
did so, even going so far as to address the man in the second person plural.
On hearing that he was to pass two turnings, and then to take a third, Selifan
remarked, “We shall get there all right, sir,” and Chichikov departed amid a
profound salvo of salutations and wavings of handkerchiefs on the part of
his host and hostess, who raised themselves on tiptoe in their enthusiasm.
For a long while Manilov stood following the departing britchka with his
eyes. In fact, he continued to smoke his pipe and gaze after the vehicle even
when it had become lost to view. Then he re-entered the drawing-room,
seated himself upon a chair, and surrendered his mind to the thought that he
had shown his guest most excellent entertainment. Next, his mind passed
imperceptibly to other matters, until at last it lost itself God only knows
where. He thought of the amenities of a life, of friendship, and of how nice
it would be to live with a comrade on, say, the bank of some river, and to
span the river with a bridge of his own, and to build an enormous mansion
with a facade lofty enough even to afford a view to Moscow. On that facade
he and his wife and friend would drink afternoon tea in the open air, and
discuss interesting subjects; after which, in a fine carriage, they would drive
to some reunion or other, where with their pleasant manners they would so
charm the company that the Imperial Government, on learning of their
merits, would raise the pair to the grade of General or God knows what—
that is to say, to heights whereof even Manilov himself could form no idea.
Then suddenly Chichikov’s extraordinary request interrupted the dreamer’s
reflections, and he found his brain powerless to digest it, seeing that, turn

and turn the matter about as he might, he could not properly explain its
bearing. Smoking his pipe, he sat where he was until supper time.

CHAPTER III

Meanwhile, Chichikov, seated in his britchka and bowling along the
turnpike, was feeling greatly pleased with himself. From the preceding
chapter the reader will have gathered the principal subject of his bent and
inclinations: wherefore it is no matter for wonder that his body and his soul
had ended by becoming wholly immersed therein. To all appearances the
thoughts, the calculations, and the projects which were now reflected in his
face partook of a pleasant nature, since momentarily they kept leaving
behind them a satisfied smile. Indeed, so engrossed was he that he never
noticed that his coachman, elated with the hospitality of Manilov’s
domestics, was making remarks of a didactic nature to the off horse of the
troika 11, a skewbald. This skewbald was a knowing animal, and made only
a show of pulling; whereas its comrades, the middle horse (a bay, and
known as the Assessor, owing to his having been acquired from a
gentleman of that rank) and the near horse (a roan), would do their work
gallantly, and even evince in their eyes the pleasure which they derived
from their exertions.
“Ah, you rascal, you rascal! I’ll get the better of you!” ejaculated Selifan
as he sat up and gave the lazy one a cut with his whip. “YOU know your
business all right, you German pantaloon! The bay is a good fellow, and
does his duty, and I will give him a bit over his feed, for he is a horse to be
respected; and the Assessor too is a good horse. But what are YOU shaking
your ears for? You are a fool, so just mind when you’re spoken to. ’Tis good
advice I’m giving you, you blockhead. Ah! You CAN travel when you
like.” And he gave the animal another cut, and then shouted to the trio,
“Gee up, my beauties!” and drew his whip gently across the backs of the
skewbald’s comrades—not as a punishment, but as a sign of his approval.
That done, he addressed himself to the skewbald again.

“Do you think,” he cried, “that I don’t see what you are doing? You can
behave quite decently when you like, and make a man respect you.”
With that he fell to recalling certain reminiscences.
“They were NICE folk, those folk at the gentleman’s yonder,” he mused.
“I DO love a chat with a man when he is a good sort. With a man of that
kind I am always hail-fellow-well-met, and glad to drink a glass of tea with
him, or to eat a biscuit. One CAN’T help respecting a decent fellow. For
instance, this gentleman of mine—why, every one looks up to him, for he
has been in the Government’s service, and is a Collegiate Councillor.”
Thus soliloquising, he passed to more remote abstractions; until, had
Chichikov been listening, he would have learnt a number of interesting
details concerning himself. However, his thoughts were wholly occupied
with his own subject, so much so that not until a loud clap of thunder awoke
him from his reverie did he glance around him. The sky was completely
covered with clouds, and the dusty turnpike beginning to be sprinkled with
drops of rain. At length a second and a nearer and a louder peal resounded,
and the rain descended as from a bucket. Falling slantwise, it beat upon one
side of the basketwork of the tilt until the splashings began to spurt into his
face, and he found himself forced to draw the curtains (fitted with circular
openings through which to obtain a glimpse of the wayside view), and to
shout to Selifan to quicken his pace. Upon that the coachman, interrupted in
the middle of his harangue, bethought him that no time was to be lost;
wherefore, extracting from under the box-seat a piece of old blanket, he
covered over his sleeves, resumed the reins, and cheered on his threefold
team (which, it may be said, had so completely succumbed to the influence
of the pleasant lassitude induced by Selifan’s discourse that it had taken to
scarcely placing one leg before the other). Unfortunately, Selifan could not
clearly remember whether two turnings had been passed or three. Indeed,
on collecting his faculties, and dimly recalling the lie of the road, he
became filled with a shrewd suspicion that A VERY LARGE NUMBER of
turnings had been passed. But since, at moments which call for a hasty
decision, a Russian is quick to discover what may conceivably be the best
course to take, our coachman put away from him all ulterior reasoning, and,
turning to the right at the next cross-road, shouted, “Hi, my beauties!” and
set off at a gallop. Never for a moment did he stop to think whither the road
might lead him!

It was long before the clouds had discharged their burden, and,
meanwhile, the dust on the road became kneaded into mire, and the horses’
task of pulling the britchka heavier and heavier. Also, Chichikov had taken
alarm at his continued failure to catch sight of Sobakevitch’s country house.
According to his calculations, it ought to have been reached long ago. He
gazed about him on every side, but the darkness was too dense for the eye
to pierce.
“Selifan!” he exclaimed, leaning forward in the britchka.
“What is it, barin?” replied the coachman.
“Can you see the country house anywhere?”
“No, barin.” After which, with a flourish of the whip, the man broke into
a sort of endless, drawling song. In that song everything had a place. By
“everything” I mean both the various encouraging and stimulating cries
with which Russian folk urge on their horses, and a random,
unpremeditated selection of adjectives.
Meanwhile Chichikov began to notice that the britchka was swaying
violently, and dealing him occasional bumps. Consequently he suspected
that it had left the road and was being dragged over a ploughed field. Upon
Selifan’s mind there appeared to have dawned a similar inkling, for he had
ceased to hold forth.
“You rascal, what road are you following?” inquired Chichikov.
“I don’t know,” retorted the coachman. “What can a man do at a time of
night when the darkness won’t let him even see his whip?” And as Selifan
spoke the vehicle tilted to an angle which left Chichikov no choice but to
hang on with hands and teeth. At length he realised the fact that Selifan was
drunk.
“Stop, stop, or you will upset us!” he shouted to the fellow.
“No, no, barin,” replied Selifan. “HOW could I upset you? To upset
people is wrong. I know that very well, and should never dream of such
conduct.”
Here he started to turn the vehicle round a little—and kept on doing so
until the britchka capsized on to its side, and Chichikov landed in the mud
on his hands and knees. Fortunately Selifan succeeded in stopping the
horses, although they would have stopped of themselves, seeing that they
were utterly worn out. This unforeseen catastrophe evidently astonished

their driver. Slipping from the box, he stood resting his hands against the
side of the britchka, while Chichikov tumbled and floundered about in the
mud, in a vain endeavour to wriggle clear of the stuff.
“Ah, you!” said Selifan meditatively to the britchka. “To think of
upsetting us like this!”
“You are as drunk as a lord!” exclaimed Chichikov.
“No, no, barin. Drunk, indeed? Why, I know my manners too well. A
word or two with a friend—that is all that I have taken. Any one may talk
with a decent man when he meets him. There is nothing wrong in that. Also,
we had a snack together. There is nothing wrong in a snack—especially a
snack with a decent man.”
“What did I say to you when last you got drunk?” asked Chichikov.
“Have you forgotten what I said then?”
“No, no, barin. HOW could I forget it? I know what is what, and know
that it is not right to get drunk. All that I have been having is a word or two
with a decent man, for the reason that—”
“Well, if I lay the whip about you, you’ll know then how to talk to a
decent fellow, I’ll warrant!”
“As you please, barin,” replied the complacent Selifan. “Should you whip
me, you will whip me, and I shall have nothing to complain of. Why should
you not whip me if I deserve it? ’Tis for you to do as you like. Whippings
are necessary sometimes, for a peasant often plays the fool, and discipline
ought to be maintained. If I have deserved it, beat me. Why should you
not?”
This reasoning seemed, at the moment, irrefutable, and Chichikov said
nothing more. Fortunately fate had decided to take pity on the pair, for from
afar their ears caught the barking of a dog. Plucking up courage, Chichikov
gave orders for the britchka to be righted, and the horses to be urged
forward; and since a Russian driver has at least this merit, that, owing to a
keen sense of smell being able to take the place of eyesight, he can, if
necessary, drive at random and yet reach a destination of some sort, Selifan
succeeded, though powerless to discern a single object, in directing his
steeds to a country house near by, and that with such a certainty of instinct
that it was not until the shafts had collided with a garden wall, and thereby
made it clear that to proceed another pace was impossible, that he stopped.

All that Chichikov could discern through the thick veil of pouring rain was
something which resembled a verandah. So he dispatched Selifan to search
for the entrance gates, and that process would have lasted indefinitely had it
not been shortened by the circumstance that, in Russia, the place of a Swiss
footman is frequently taken by watchdogs; of which animals a number now
proclaimed the travellers’ presence so loudly that Chichikov found himself
forced to stop his ears. Next, a light gleamed in one of the windows, and
filtered in a thin stream to the garden wall—thus revealing the whereabouts
of the entrance gates; whereupon Selifan fell to knocking at the gates until
the bolts of the house door were withdrawn and there issued therefrom a
figure clad in a rough cloak.
“Who is that knocking? What have you come for?” shouted the hoarse
voice of an elderly woman.
“We are travellers, good mother,” said Chichikov. “Pray allow us to
spend the night here.”
“Out upon you for a pair of gadabouts!” retorted the old woman. “A fine
time of night to be arriving! We don’t keep an hotel, mind you. This is a
lady’s residence.”
“But what are we to do, mother? We have lost our way, and cannot spend
the night out of doors in such weather.”
“No, we cannot. The night is dark and cold,” added Selifan.
“Hold your tongue, you fool!” exclaimed Chichikov.
“Who ARE you, then?” inquired the old woman.
“A dvorianin 12, good mother.”
Somehow the word dvorianin seemed to give the old woman food for
thought.
“Wait a moment,” she said, “and I will tell the mistress.”
Two minutes later she returned with a lantern in her hand, the gates were
opened, and a light glimmered in a second window. Entering the courtyard,
the britchka halted before a moderate-sized mansion. The darkness did not
permit of very accurate observation being made, but, apparently, the
windows only of one-half of the building were illuminated, while a
quagmire in front of the door reflected the beams from the same.
Meanwhile the rain continued to beat sonorously down upon the wooden
roof, and could be heard trickling into a water butt; nor for a single moment

did the dogs cease to bark with all the strength of their lungs. One of them,
throwing up its head, kept venting a howl of such energy and duration that
the animal seemed to be howling for a handsome wager; while another,
cutting in between the yelpings of the first animal, kept restlessly
reiterating, like a postman’s bell, the notes of a very young puppy. Finally,
an old hound which appeared to be gifted with a peculiarly robust
temperament kept supplying the part of contrabasso, so that his growls
resembled the rumbling of a bass singer when a chorus is in full cry, and the
tenors are rising on tiptoe in their efforts to compass a particularly high
note, and the whole body of choristers are wagging their heads before
approaching a climax, and this contrabasso alone is tucking his bearded
chin into his collar, and sinking almost to a squatting posture on the floor, in
order to produce a note which shall cause the windows to shiver and their
panes to crack. Naturally, from a canine chorus of such executants it might
reasonably be inferred that the establishment was one of the utmost
respectability. To that, however, our damp, cold hero gave not a thought, for
all his mind was fixed upon bed. Indeed, the britchka had hardly come to a
standstill before he leapt out upon the doorstep, missed his footing, and
came within an ace of falling. To meet him there issued a female younger
than the first, but very closely resembling her; and on his being conducted
to the parlour, a couple of glances showed him that the room was hung with
old striped curtains, and ornamented with pictures of birds and small,
antique mirrors—the latter set in dark frames which were carved to
resemble scrolls of foliage. Behind each mirror was stuck either a letter or
an old pack of cards or a stocking, while on the wall hung a clock with a
flowered dial. More, however, Chichikov could not discern, for his eyelids
were as heavy as though smeared with treacle. Presently the lady of the
house herself entered—an elderly woman in a sort of nightcap (hastily put
on) and a flannel neck wrap. She belonged to that class of lady landowners
who are for ever lamenting failures of the harvest and their losses thereby;
to the class who, drooping their heads despondently, are all the while
stuffing money into striped purses, which they keep hoarded in the drawers
of cupboards. Into one purse they will stuff rouble pieces, into another half
roubles, and into a third tchetvertachki 13, although from their mien you
would suppose that the cupboard contained only linen and nightshirts and
skeins of wool and the piece of shabby material which is destined—should
the old gown become scorched during the baking of holiday cakes and other

dainties, or should it fall into pieces of itself—to become converted into a
new dress. But the gown never does get burnt or wear out, for the reason
that the lady is too careful; wherefore the piece of shabby material reposes
in its unmade-up condition until the priest advises that it be given to the
niece of some widowed sister, together with a quantity of other such
rubbish.
Chichikov apologised for having disturbed the household with his
unexpected arrival.
“Not at all, not at all,” replied the lady. “But in what dreadful weather
God has brought you hither! What wind and what rain! You could not help
losing your way. Pray excuse us for being unable to make better
preparations for you at this time of night.”
Suddenly there broke in upon the hostess’ words the sound of a strange
hissing, a sound so loud that the guest started in alarm, and the more so
seeing that it increased until the room seemed filled with adders. On
glancing upwards, however, he recovered his composure, for he perceived
the sound to be emanating from the clock, which appeared to be in a mind
to strike. To the hissing sound there succeeded a wheezing one, until,
putting forth its best efforts, the thing struck two with as much clatter as
though some one had been hitting an iron pot with a cudgel. That done, the
pendulum returned to its right-left, right-left oscillation.
Chichikov thanked his hostess kindly, and said that he needed nothing,
and she must not put herself about: only for rest was he longing—though
also he should like to know whither he had arrived, and whether the
distance to the country house of land-owner Sobakevitch was anything very
great. To this the lady replied that she had never so much as heard the name,
since no gentleman of the name resided in the locality.
“But at least you are acquainted with landowner Manilov?” continued
Chichikov.
“No. Who is he?”
“Another landed proprietor, madam.”
“Well, neither have I heard of him. No such landowner lives hereabouts.”
“Then who ARE your local landowners?”
“Bobrov, Svinin, Kanapatiev, Khapakin, Trepakin, and Plieshakov.”
“Are they rich men?”

“No, none of them. One of them may own twenty souls, and another
thirty, but of gentry who own a hundred there are none.”
Chichikov reflected that he had indeed fallen into an aristocratic
wilderness!
“At all events, is the town far away?” he inquired.
“About sixty versts. How sorry I am that I have nothing for you to eat!
Should you care to drink some tea?”
“I thank you, good mother, but I require nothing beyond a bed.”
“Well, after such a journey you must indeed be needing rest, so you shall
lie upon this sofa. Fetinia, bring a quilt and some pillows and sheets. What
weather God has sent us! And what dreadful thunder! Ever since sunset I
have had a candle burning before the ikon in my bedroom. My God! Why,
your back and sides are as muddy as a boar’s! However have you managed
to get into such a state?”
“That I am nothing worse than muddy is indeed fortunate, since, but for
the Almighty, I should have had my ribs broken.”
“Dear, dear! To think of all that you must have been through. Had I not
better wipe your back?”
“I thank you, I thank you, but you need not trouble. Merely be so good as
to tell your maid to dry my clothes.”
“Do you hear that, Fetinia?” said the hostess, turning to a woman who
was engaged in dragging in a feather bed and deluging the room with
feathers. “Take this coat and this vest, and, after drying them before the fire
—just as we used to do for your late master—give them a good rub, and
fold them up neatly.”
“Very well, mistress,” said Fetinia, spreading some sheets over the bed,
and arranging the pillows.
“Now your bed is ready for you,” said the hostess to Chichikov. “Good-
night, dear sir. I wish you good-night. Is there anything else that you
require? Perhaps you would like to have your heels tickled before retiring to
rest? Never could my late husband get to sleep without that having been
done.”
But the guest declined the proffered heel-tickling, and, on his hostess
taking her departure, hastened to divest himself of his clothing, both upper

and under, and to hand the garments to Fetinia. She wished him good-night,
and removed the wet trappings; after which he found himself alone. Not
without satisfaction did he eye his bed, which reached almost to the ceiling.
Clearly Fetinia was a past mistress in the art of beating up such a couch,
and, as the result, he had no sooner mounted it with the aid of a chair than it
sank well-nigh to the floor, and the feathers, squeezed out of their proper
confines, flew hither and thither into every corner of the apartment.
Nevertheless he extinguished the candle, covered himself over with the
chintz quilt, snuggled down beneath it, and instantly fell asleep. Next day it
was late in the morning before he awoke. Through the window the sun was
shining into his eyes, and the flies which, overnight, had been roosting
quietly on the walls and ceiling now turned their attention to the visitor.
One settled on his lip, another on his ear, a third hovered as though
intending to lodge in his very eye, and a fourth had the temerity to alight
just under his nostrils. In his drowsy condition he inhaled the latter insect,
sneezed violently, and so returned to consciousness. He glanced around the
room, and perceived that not all the pictures were representative of birds,
since among them hung also a portrait of Kutuzov 14 and an oil painting of
an old man in a uniform with red facings such as were worn in the days of
the Emperor Paul 15. At this moment the clock uttered its usual hissing
sound, and struck ten, while a woman’s face peered in at the door, but at
once withdrew, for the reason that, with the object of sleeping as well as
possible, Chichikov had removed every stitch of his clothing. Somehow the
face seemed to him familiar, and he set himself to recall whose it could be.
At length he recollected that it was the face of his hostess. His clothes he
found lying, clean and dry, beside him; so he dressed and approached the
mirror, meanwhile sneezing again with such vehemence that a cock which
happened at the moment to be near the window (which was situated at no
great distance from the ground) chuckled a short, sharp phrase. Probably it
meant, in the bird’s alien tongue, “Good morning to you!” Chichikov
retorted by calling the bird a fool, and then himself approached the window
to look at the view. It appeared to comprise a poulterer’s premises. At all
events, the narrow yard in front of the window was full of poultry and other
domestic creatures—of game fowls and barn door fowls, with, among them,
a cock which strutted with measured gait, and kept shaking its comb, and
tilting its head as though it were trying to listen to something. Also, a sow
and her family were helping to grace the scene. First, she rooted among a

heap of litter; then, in passing, she ate up a young pullet; lastly, she
proceeded carelessly to munch some pieces of melon rind. To this small
yard or poultry-run a length of planking served as a fence, while beyond it
lay a kitchen garden containing cabbages, onions, potatoes, beetroots, and
other household vegetables. Also, the garden contained a few stray fruit
trees that were covered with netting to protect them from the magpies and
sparrows; flocks of which were even then wheeling and darting from one
spot to another. For the same reason a number of scarecrows with
outstretched arms stood reared on long poles, with, surmounting one of the
figures, a cast-off cap of the hostess’s. Beyond the garden again there stood
a number of peasants’ huts. Though scattered, instead of being arranged in
regular rows, these appeared to Chichikov’s eye to comprise well-to-do
inhabitants, since all rotten planks in their roofing had been replaced with
new ones, and none of their doors were askew, and such of their tiltsheds as
faced him evinced evidence of a presence of a spare waggon—in some
cases almost a new one.
“This lady owns by no means a poor village,” said Chichikov to himself;
wherefore he decided then and there to have a talk with his hostess, and to
cultivate her closer acquaintance. Accordingly he peeped through the chink
of the door whence her head had recently protruded, and, on seeing her
seated at a tea table, entered and greeted her with a cheerful, kindly smile.
“Good morning, dear sir,” she responded as she rose. “How have you
slept?” She was dressed in better style than she had been on the previous
evening. That is to say, she was now wearing a gown of some dark colour,
and lacked her nightcap, and had swathed her neck in something stiff.
“I have slept exceedingly well,” replied Chichikov, seating himself upon
a chair. “And how are YOU, good madam?”
“But poorly, my dear sir.”
“And why so?”
“Because I cannot sleep. A pain has taken me in my middle, and my legs,
from the ankles upwards, are aching as though they were broken.”
“That will pass, that will pass, good mother. You must pay no attention to
it.”
“God grant that it MAY pass. However, I have been rubbing myself with
lard and turpentine. What sort of tea will you take? In this jar I have some

of the scented kind.”
“Excellent, good mother! Then I will take that.”
Probably the reader will have noticed that, for all his expressions of
solicitude, Chichikov’s tone towards his hostess partook of a freer, a more
unceremonious, nature than that which he had adopted towards Madam
Manilov. And here I should like to assert that, howsoever much, in certain
respects, we Russians may be surpassed by foreigners, at least we surpass
them in adroitness of manner. In fact the various shades and subtleties of
our social intercourse defy enumeration. A Frenchman or a German would
be incapable of envisaging and understanding all its peculiarities and
differences, for his tone in speaking to a millionaire differs but little from
that which he employs towards a small tobacconist—and that in spite of the
circumstance that he is accustomed to cringe before the former. With us,
however, things are different. In Russian society there exist clever folk who
can speak in one manner to a landowner possessed of two hundred peasant
souls, and in another to a landowner possessed of three hundred, and in
another to a landowner possessed of five hundred. In short, up to the
number of a million souls the Russian will have ready for each landowner a
suitable mode of address. For example, suppose that somewhere there exists
a government office, and that in that office there exists a director. I would
beg of you to contemplate him as he sits among his myrmidons. Sheer
nervousness will prevent you from uttering a word in his presence, so great
are the pride and superiority depicted on his countenance. Also, were you to
sketch him, you would be sketching a veritable Prometheus, for his glance
is as that of an eagle, and he walks with measured, stately stride. Yet no
sooner will the eagle have left the room to seek the study of his superior
officer than he will go scurrying along (papers held close to his nose) like
any partridge. But in society, and at the evening party (should the rest of
those present be of lesser rank than himself) the Prometheus will once more
become Prometheus, and the man who stands a step below him will treat
him in a way never dreamt of by Ovid, seeing that each fly is of lesser
account than its superior fly, and becomes, in the presence of the latter, even
as a grain of sand. “Surely that is not Ivan Petrovitch?” you will say of such
and such a man as you regard him. “Ivan Petrovitch is tall, whereas this
man is small and spare. Ivan Petrovitch has a loud, deep voice, and never
smiles, whereas this man (whoever he may be) is twittering like a sparrow,
and smiling all the time.” Yet approach and take a good look at the fellow

and you will see that is IS Ivan Petrovitch. “Alack, alack!” will be the only
remark you can make.
Let us return to our characters in real life. We have seen that, on this
occasion, Chichikov decided to dispense with ceremony; wherefore, taking
up the teapot, he went on as follows:
“You have a nice little village here, madam. How many souls does it
contain?”
“A little less than eighty, dear sir. But the times are hard, and I have lost a
great deal through last year’s harvest having proved a failure.”
“But your peasants look fine, strong fellows. May I enquire your name?
Through arriving so late at night I have quite lost my wits.”
“Korobotchka, the widow of a Collegiate Secretary.”
“I humbly thank you. And your Christian name and patronymic?”
“Nastasia Petrovna.”
“Nastasia Petrovna! Those are excellent names. I have a maternal aunt
named like yourself.”
“And YOUR name?” queried the lady. “May I take it that you are a
Government Assessor?”
“No, madam,” replied Chichikov with a smile. “I am not an Assessor, but
a traveller on private business.”
“Then you must be a buyer of produce? How I regret that I have sold my
honey so cheaply to other buyers! Otherwise YOU might have bought it,
dear sir.”
“I never buy honey.”
“Then WHAT do you buy, pray? Hemp? I have a little of that by me, but
not more than half a pood 16 or so.”
“No, madam. It is in other wares that I deal. Tell me, have you, of late
years, lost many of your peasants by death?”
“Yes; no fewer than eighteen,” responded the old lady with a sigh. “Such
a fine lot, too—all good workers! True, others have since grown up, but of
what use are THEY? Mere striplings. When the Assessor last called upon
me I could have wept; for, though those workmen of mine are dead, I have
to keep on paying for them as though they were still alive! And only last

week my blacksmith got burnt to death! Such a clever hand at his trade he
was!”
“What? A fire occurred at your place?”
“No, no, God preserve us all! It was not so bad as that. You must
understand that the blacksmith SET HIMSELF on fire—he got set on fire in
his bowels through overdrinking. Yes, all of a sudden there burst from him a
blue flame, and he smouldered and smouldered until he had turned as black
as a piece of charcoal! Yet what a clever blacksmith he was! And now I
have no horses to drive out with, for there is no one to shoe them.”
“In everything the will of God, madam,” said Chichikov with a sigh.
“Against the divine wisdom it is not for us to rebel. Pray hand them over to
me, Nastasia Petrovna.”
“Hand over whom?”
“The dead peasants.”
“But how could I do that?”
“Quite simply. Sell them to me, and I will give you some money in
exchange.”
“But how am I to sell them to you? I scarcely understand what you mean.
Am I to dig them up again from the ground?”
Chichikov perceived that the old lady was altogether at sea, and that he
must explain the matter; wherefore in a few words he informed her that the
transfer or purchase of the souls in question would take place merely on
paper—that the said souls would be listed as still alive.
“And what good would they be to you?” asked his hostess, staring at him
with her eyes distended.
“That is MY affair.”
“But they are DEAD souls.”
“Who said they were not? The mere fact of their being dead entails upon
you a loss as dead as the souls, for you have to continue paying tax upon
them, whereas MY plan is to relieve you both of the tax and of the resultant
trouble. NOW do you understand? And I will not only do as I say, but also
hand you over fifteen roubles per soul. Is that clear enough?”
“Yes—but I do not know,” said his hostess diffidently. “You see, never
before have I sold dead souls.”

“Quite so. It would be a surprising thing if you had. But surely you do
not think that these dead souls are in the least worth keeping?”
“Oh, no, indeed! Why should they be worth keeping? I am sure they are
not so. The only thing which troubles me is the fact that they are DEAD.”
“She seems a truly obstinate old woman!” was Chichikov’s inward
comment. “Look here, madam,” he added aloud. “You reason well, but you
are simply ruining yourself by continuing to pay the tax upon dead souls as
though they were still alive.”
“Oh, good sir, do not speak of it!” the lady exclaimed. “Three weeks ago
I took a hundred and fifty roubles to that Assessor, and buttered him up, and
—”
“Then you see how it is, do you not? Remember that, according to my
plan, you will never again have to butter up the Assessor, seeing that it will
be I who will be paying for those peasants—I, not YOU, for I shall have
taken over the dues upon them, and have transferred them to myself as so
many bona fide serfs. Do you understand AT LAST?”
However, the old lady still communed with herself. She could see that the
transaction would be to her advantage, yet it was one of such a novel and
unprecedented nature that she was beginning to fear lest this purchaser of
souls intended to cheat her. Certainly he had come from God only knew
where, and at the dead of night, too!
“But, sir, I have never in my life sold dead folk—only living ones. Three
years ago I transferred two wenches to Protopopov for a hundred roubles
apiece, and he thanked me kindly, for they turned out splendid workers—
able to make napkins or anything else.
“Yes, but with the living we have nothing to do, damn it! I am asking you
only about DEAD folk.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But at first sight I felt afraid lest I should be
incurring a loss—lest you should be wishing to outwit me, good sir. You
see, the dead souls are worth rather more than you have offered for them.”
“See here, madam. (What a woman it is!) HOW could they be worth
more? Think for yourself. They are so much loss to you—so much loss, do
you understand? Take any worthless, rubbishy article you like—a piece of
old rag, for example. That rag will yet fetch its price, for it can be bought

for paper-making. But these dead souls are good for NOTHING AT ALL.
Can you name anything that they ARE good for?”
“True, true—they ARE good for nothing. But what troubles me is the fact
that they are dead.”
“What a blockhead of a creature!” said Chichikov to himself, for he was
beginning to lose patience. “Bless her heart, I may as well be going. She has
thrown me into a perfect sweat, the cursed old shrew!”
He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the perspiration from
his brow. Yet he need not have flown into such a passion. More than one
respected statesman reveals himself, when confronted with a business
matter, to be just such another as Madam Korobotchka, in that, once he has
got an idea into his head, there is no getting it out of him—you may ply him
with daylight-clear arguments, yet they will rebound from his brain as an
india-rubber ball rebounds from a flagstone. Nevertheless, wiping away the
perspiration, Chichikov resolved to try whether he could not bring her back
to the road by another path.
“Madam,” he said, “either you are declining to understand what I say or
you are talking for the mere sake of talking. If I hand you over some money
—fifteen roubles for each soul, do you understand?—it is MONEY, not
something which can be picked up haphazard on the street. For instance,
tell me how much you sold your honey for?”
“For twelve roubles per pood.”
“Ah! Then by those words, madam, you have laid a trifling sin upon your
soul; for you did NOT sell the honey for twelve roubles.”
“By the Lord God I did!”
“Well, well! Never mind. Honey is only honey. Now, you had collected
that stuff, it may be, for a year, and with infinite care and labour. You had
fussed after it, you had trotted to and fro, you had duly frozen out the bees,
and you had fed them in the cellar throughout the winter. But these dead
souls of which I speak are quite another matter, for in this case you have put
forth no exertions—it was merely God’s will that they should leave the
world, and thus decrease the personnel of your establishment. In the former
case you received (so you allege) twelve roubles per pood for your labour;
but in this case you will receive money for having done nothing at all. Nor

will you receive twelve roubles per item, but FIFTEEN—and roubles not in
silver, but roubles in good paper currency.”
That these powerful inducements would certainly cause the old woman to
yield Chichikov had not a doubt.
“True,” his hostess replied. “But how strangely business comes to me as
a widow! Perhaps I had better wait a little longer, seeing that other buyers
might come along, and I might be able to compare prices.”
“For shame, madam! For shame! Think what you are saying. Who else, I
would ask, would care to buy those souls? What use could they be to any
one?”
“If that is so, they might come in useful to ME,” mused the old woman
aloud; after which she sat staring at Chichikov with her mouth open and a
face of nervous expectancy as to his possible rejoinder.
“Dead folk useful in a household!” he exclaimed. “Why, what could you
do with them? Set them up on poles to frighten away the sparrows from
your garden?”
“The Lord save us, but what things you say!” she ejaculated, crossing
herself.
“Well, WHAT could you do with them? By this time they are so much
bones and earth. That is all there is left of them. Their transfer to myself
would be ON PAPER only. Come, come! At least give me an answer.”
Again the old woman communed with herself.
“What are you thinking of, Nastasia Petrovna?” inquired Chichikov.
“I am thinking that I scarcely know what to do. Perhaps I had better sell
you some hemp?”
“What do I want with hemp? Pardon me, but just when I have made to
you a different proposal altogether you begin fussing about hemp! Hemp is
hemp, and though I may want some when I NEXT visit you, I should like to
know what you have to say to the suggestion under discussion.”
“Well, I think it a very queer bargain. Never have I heard of such a
thing.”
Upon this Chichikov lost all patience, upset his chair, and bid her go to
the devil; of which personage even the mere mention terrified her
extremely.

“Do not speak of him, I beg of you!” she cried, turning pale. “May God,
rather, bless him! Last night was the third night that he has appeared to me
in a dream. You see, after saying my prayers, I bethought me of telling my
fortune by the cards; and God must have sent him as a punishment. He
looked so horrible, and had horns longer than a bull’s!”
“I wonder you don’t see SCORES of devils in your dreams! Merely out
of Christian charity he had come to you to say, ‘I perceive a poor widow
going to rack and ruin, and likely soon to stand in danger of want.’ Well, go
to rack and ruin—yes, you and all your village together!”
“The insults!” exclaimed the old woman, glancing at her visitor in terror.
“I should think so!” continued Chichikov. “Indeed, I cannot find words to
describe you. To say no more about it, you are like a dog in a manger. You
don’t want to eat the hay yourself, yet you won’t let anyone else touch it.
All that I am seeking to do is to purchase certain domestic products of
yours, for the reason that I have certain Government contracts to fulfil.”
This last he added in passing, and without any ulterior motive, save that it
came to him as a happy thought. Nevertheless the mention of Government
contracts exercised a powerful influence upon Nastasia Petrovna, and she
hastened to say in a tone that was almost supplicatory:
“Why should you be so angry with me? Had I known that you were
going to lose your temper in this way, I should never have discussed the
matter.”
“No wonder that I lose my temper! An egg too many is no great matter,
yet it may prove exceedingly annoying.”
“Well, well, I will let you have the souls for fifteen roubles each. Also,
with regard to those contracts, do not forget me if at any time you should
find yourself in need of rye-meal or buckwheat or groats or dead meat.”
“No, I shall NEVER forget you, madam!” he said, wiping his forehead,
where three separate streams of perspiration were trickling down his face.
Then he asked her whether in the town she had any acquaintance or agent
whom she could empower to complete the transference of the serfs, and to
carry out whatsoever else might be necessary.
“Certainly,” replied Madame Korobotchka. “The son of our archpriest,
Father Cyril, himself is a lawyer.”

Upon that Chichikov begged her to accord the gentleman in question a
power of attorney, while, to save extra trouble, he himself would then and
there compose the requisite letter.
“It would be a fine thing if he were to buy up all my meal and stock for
the Government,” thought Madame to herself. “I must encourage him a
little. There has been some dough standing ready since last night, so I will
go and tell Fetinia to try a few pancakes. Also, it might be well to try him
with an egg pie. We make then nicely here, and they do not take long in the
making.”
So she departed to translate her thoughts into action, as well as to
supplement the pie with other products of the domestic cuisine; while, for
his part, Chichikov returned to the drawing-room where he had spent the
night, in order to procure from his dispatch-box the necessary writing-
paper. The room had now been set in order, the sumptuous feather bed
removed, and a table set before the sofa. Depositing his dispatch-box upon
the table, he heaved a gentle sigh on becoming aware that he was so soaked
with perspiration that he might almost have been dipped in a river.
Everything, from his shirt to his socks, was dripping. “May she starve to
death, the cursed old harridan!” he ejaculated after a moment’s rest. Then he
opened his dispatch-box. In passing, I may say that I feel certain that at
least SOME of my readers will be curious to know the contents and the
internal arrangements of that receptacle. Why should I not gratify their
curiosity? To begin with, the centre of the box contained a soap-dish, with,
disposed around it, six or seven compartments for razors. Next came square
partitions for a sand-box 17 and an inkstand, as well as (scooped out in their
midst) a hollow of pens, sealing-wax, and anything else that required more
room. Lastly there were all sorts of little divisions, both with and without
lids, for articles of a smaller nature, such as visiting cards, memorial cards,
theatre tickets, and things which Chichikov had laid by as souvenirs. This
portion of the box could be taken out, and below it were both a space for
manuscripts and a secret money-box—the latter made to draw out from the
side of the receptacle.
Chichikov set to work to clean a pen, and then to write. Presently his
hostess entered the room.
“What a beautiful box you have got, my dear sir!” she exclaimed as she
took a seat beside him. “Probably you bought it in Moscow?”

“Yes—in Moscow,” replied Chichikov without interrupting his writing.
“I thought so. One CAN get good things there. Three years ago my sister
brought me a few pairs of warm shoes for my sons, and they were such
excellent articles! To this day my boys wear them. And what nice stamped
paper you have!” (she had peered into the dispatch-box, where, sure
enough, there lay a further store of the paper in question). “Would you mind
letting me have a sheet of it? I am without any at all, although I shall soon
have to be presenting a plea to the land court, and possess not a morsel of
paper to write it on.”
Upon this Chichikov explained that the paper was not the sort proper for
the purpose—that it was meant for serf-indenturing, and not for the framing
of pleas. Nevertheless, to quiet her, he gave her a sheet stamped to the value
of a rouble. Next, he handed her the letter to sign, and requested, in return, a
list of her peasants. Unfortunately, such a list had never been compiled, let
alone any copies of it, and the only way in which she knew the peasants’
names was by heart. However, he told her to dictate them. Some of the
names greatly astonished our hero, so, still more, did the surnames. Indeed,
frequently, on hearing the latter, he had to pause before writing them down.
Especially did he halt before a certain “Peter Saveliev Neuvazhai Korito.”
“What a string of titles!” involuntarily he ejaculated. To the Christian name
of another serf was appended “Korovi Kirpitch,” and to that of a third
“Koleso Ivan.” However, at length the list was compiled, and he caught a
deep breath; which latter proceeding caused him to catch also the attractive
odour of something fried in fat.
“I beseech you to have a morsel,” murmured his hostess. Chichikov
looked up, and saw that the table was spread with mushrooms, pies, and
other viands.
“Try this freshly-made pie and an egg,” continued Madame.
Chichikov did so, and having eaten more than half of what she offered
him, praised the pie highly. Indeed, it was a toothsome dish, and, after his
difficulties and exertions with his hostess, it tasted even better than it might
otherwise have done.
“And also a few pancakes?” suggested Madame.
For answer Chichikov folded three together, and, having dipped them in
melted butter, consigned the lot to his mouth, and then wiped his mouth
with a napkin. Twice more was the process repeated, and then he requested

his hostess to order the britchka to be got ready. In dispatching Fetinia with
the necessary instructions, she ordered her to return with a second batch of
hot pancakes.
“Your pancakes are indeed splendid,” said Chichikov, applying himself to
the second consignment of fried dainties when they had arrived.
“Yes, we make them well here,” replied Madame. “Yet how unfortunate
it is that the harvest should have proved so poor as to have prevented me
from earning anything on my—But why should you be in such a hurry to
depart, good sir?” She broke off on seeing Chichikov reach for his cap.
“The britchka is not yet ready.”
“Then it is being got so, madam, it is being got so, and I shall need a
moment or two to pack my things.”
“As you please, dear sir; but do not forget me in connection with those
Government contracts.”
“No, I have said that NEVER shall I forget you,” replied Chichikov as he
hurried into the hall.
“And would you like to buy some lard?” continued his hostess, pursuing
him.
“Lard? Oh certainly. Why not? Only, only—I will do so ANOTHER
time.”
“I shall have some ready at about Christmas.”
“Quite so, madam. THEN I will buy anything and everything—the lard
included.”
“And perhaps you will be wanting also some feathers? I shall be having
some for sale about St. Philip’s Day.”
“Very well, very well, madam.”
“There you see!” she remarked as they stepped out on to the verandah.
“The britchka is NOT yet ready.”
“But it soon will be, it soon will be. Only direct me to the main road.”
“How am I to do that?” said Madame. “‘Twould puzzle a wise man to do
so, for in these parts there are so many turnings. However, I will send a girl
to guide you. You could find room for her on the box-seat, could you not?”
“Yes, of course.”

“Then I will send her. She knows the way thoroughly. Only do not carry
her off for good. Already some traders have deprived me of one of my
girls.”
Chichikov reassured his hostess on the point, and Madame plucked up
courage enough to scan, first of all, the housekeeper, who happened to be
issuing from the storehouse with a bowl of honey, and, next, a young
peasant who happened to be standing at the gates; and, while thus engaged,
she became wholly absorbed in her domestic pursuits. But why pay her so
much attention? The Widow Korobotchka, Madame Manilov, domestic life,
non-domestic life—away with them all! How strangely are things
compounded! In a trice may joy turn to sorrow, should one halt long enough
over it: in a trice only God can say what ideas may strike one. You may fall
even to thinking: “After all, did Madame Korobotchka stand so very low in
the scale of human perfection? Was there really such a very great gulf
between her and Madame Manilov—between her and the Madame Manilov
whom we have seen entrenched behind the walls of a genteel mansion in
which there were a fine staircase of wrought metal and a number of rich
carpets; the Madame Manilov who spent most of her time in yawning
behind half-read books, and in hoping for a visit from some socially
distinguished person in order that she might display her wit and carefully
rehearsed thoughts—thoughts which had been de rigueur in town for a
week past, yet which referred, not to what was going on in her household or
on her estate—both of which properties were at odds and ends, owing to her
ignorance of the art of managing them—but to the coming political
revolution in France and the direction in which fashionable Catholicism
was supposed to be moving? But away with such things! Why need we
speak of them? Yet how comes it that suddenly into the midst of our
careless, frivolous, unthinking moments there may enter another, and a very
different, tendency?—that the smile may not have left a human face before
its owner will have radically changed his or her nature (though not his or
her environment) with the result that the face will suddenly become lit with
a radiance never before seen there?...
“Here is the britchka, here is the britchka!” exclaimed Chichikov on
perceiving that vehicle slowly advancing. “Ah, you blockhead!” he went on
to Selifan. “Why have you been loitering about? I suppose last night’s
fumes have not yet left your brain?”

To this Selifan returned no reply.
“Good-bye, madam,” added the speaker. “But where is the girl whom
you promised me?”
“Here, Pelagea!” called the hostess to a wench of about eleven who was
dressed in home-dyed garments and could boast of a pair of bare feet
which, from a distance, might almost have been mistaken for boots, so
encrusted were they with fresh mire. “Here, Pelagea! Come and show this
gentleman the way.”
Selifan helped the girl to ascend to the box-seat. Placing one foot upon
the step by which the gentry mounted, she covered the said step with mud,
and then, ascending higher, attained the desired position beside the
coachman. Chichikov followed in her wake (causing the britchka to heel
over with his weight as he did so), and then settled himself back into his
place with an “All right! Good-bye, madam!” as the horses moved away at
a trot.
Selifan looked gloomy as he drove, but also very attentive to his
business. This was invariably his custom when he had committed the fault
of getting drunk. Also, the horses looked unusually well-groomed. In
particular, the collar on one of them had been neatly mended, although
hitherto its state of dilapidation had been such as perennially to allow the
stuffing to protrude through the leather. The silence preserved was well-
nigh complete. Merely flourishing his whip, Selifan spoke to the team no
word of instruction, although the skewbald was as ready as usual to listen to
conversation of a didactic nature, seeing that at such times the reins hung
loosely in the hands of the loquacious driver, and the whip wandered merely
as a matter of form over the backs of the troika. This time, however, there
could be heard issuing from Selifan’s sullen lips only the uniformly
unpleasant exclamation, “Now then, you brutes! Get on with you, get on
with you!” The bay and the Assessor too felt put out at not hearing
themselves called “my pets” or “good lads”; while, in addition, the
skewbald came in for some nasty cuts across his sleek and ample quarters.
“What has put master out like this?” thought the animal as it shook its head.
“Heaven knows where he does not keep beating me—across the back, and
even where I am tenderer still. Yes, he keeps catching the whip in my ears,
and lashing me under the belly.”

“To the right, eh?” snapped Selifan to the girl beside him as he pointed to
a rain-soaked road which trended away through fresh green fields.
“No, no,” she replied. “I will show you the road when the time comes.”
“Which way, then?” he asked again when they had proceeded a little
further.
“This way.” And she pointed to the road just mentioned.
“Get along with you!” retorted the coachman. “That DOES go to the
right. You don’t know your right hand from your left.”
The weather was fine, but the ground so excessively sodden that the
wheels of the britchka collected mire until they had become caked as with a
layer of felt, a circumstance which greatly increased the weight of the
vehicle, and prevented it from clearing the neighbouring parishes before the
afternoon was arrived. Also, without the girl’s help the finding of the way
would have been impossible, since roads wiggled away in every direction,
like crabs released from a net, and, but for the assistance mentioned, Selifan
would have found himself left to his own devices. Presently she pointed to a
building ahead, with the words, “THERE is the main road.”
“And what is the building?” asked Selifan.
“A tavern,” she said.
“Then we can get along by ourselves,” he observed. “Do you get down,
and be off home.”
With that he stopped, and helped her to alight—muttering as he did so:
“Ah, you blackfooted creature!”
Chichikov added a copper groat, and she departed well pleased with her
ride in the gentleman’s carriage.

CHAPTER IV

On reaching the tavern, Chichikov called a halt. His reasons for this were
twofold—namely, that he wanted to rest the horses, and that he himself
desired some refreshment. In this connection the author feels bound to
confess that the appetite and the capacity of such men are greatly to be
envied. Of those well-to-do folk of St. Petersburg and Moscow who spend
their time in considering what they shall eat on the morrow, and in
composing a dinner for the day following, and who never sit down to a
meal without first of all injecting a pill and then swallowing oysters and
crabs and a quantity of other monsters, while eternally departing for
Karlsbad or the Caucasus, the author has but a small opinion. Yes, THEY
are not the persons to inspire envy. Rather, it is the folk of the middle
classes—folk who at one posthouse call for bacon, and at another for a
sucking pig, and at a third for a steak of sturgeon or a baked pudding with
onions, and who can sit down to table at any hour, as though they had never
had a meal in their lives, and can devour fish of all sorts, and guzzle and
chew it with a view to provoking further appetite—these, I say, are the folk
who enjoy heaven’s most favoured gift. To attain such a celestial condition
the great folk of whom I have spoken would sacrifice half their serfs and
half their mortgaged and non-mortgaged property, with the foreign and
domestic improvements thereon, if thereby they could compass such a
stomach as is possessed by the folk of the middle class. But, unfortunately,
neither money nor real estate, whether improved or non-improved, can
purchase such a stomach.
The little wooden tavern, with its narrow, but hospitable, curtain
suspended from a pair of rough-hewn doorposts like old church
candlesticks, seemed to invite Chichikov to enter. True, the establishment
was only a Russian hut of the ordinary type, but it was a hut of larger
dimensions than usual, and had around its windows and gables carved and
patterned cornices of bright-coloured wood which threw into relief the

darker hue of the walls, and consorted well with the flowered pitchers
painted on the shutters.
Ascending the narrow wooden staircase to the upper floor, and arriving
upon a broad landing, Chichikov found himself confronted with a creaking
door and a stout old woman in a striped print gown. “This way, if you
please,” she said. Within the apartment designated Chichikov encountered
the old friends which one invariably finds in such roadside hostelries—to
wit, a heavy samovar, four smooth, bescratched walls of white pine, a three-
cornered press with cups and teapots, egg-cups of gilded china standing in
front of ikons suspended by blue and red ribands, a cat lately delivered of a
family, a mirror which gives one four eyes instead of two and a pancake for
a face, and, beside the ikons, some bunches of herbs and carnations of such
faded dustiness that, should one attempt to smell them, one is bound to
burst out sneezing.
“Have you a sucking-pig?” Chichikov inquired of the landlady as she
stood expectantly before him.
“Yes.”
“And some horse-radish and sour cream?”
“Yes.”
“Then serve them.”
The landlady departed for the purpose, and returned with a plate, a
napkin (the latter starched to the consistency of dried bark), a knife with a
bone handle beginning to turn yellow, a two-pronged fork as thin as a wafer,
and a salt-cellar incapable of being made to stand upright.
Following the accepted custom, our hero entered into conversation with
the woman, and inquired whether she herself or a landlord kept the tavern;
how much income the tavern brought in; whether her sons lived with her;
whether the oldest was a bachelor or married; whom the eldest had taken to
wife; whether the dowry had been large; whether the father-in-law had been
satisfied, and whether the said father-in-law had not complained of
receiving too small a present at the wedding. In short, Chichikov touched
on every conceivable point. Likewise (of course) he displayed some
curiosity as to the landowners of the neighbourhood. Their names, he
ascertained, were Blochin, Potchitaev, Minoi, Cheprakov, and Sobakevitch.

“Then you are acquainted with Sobakevitch?” he said; whereupon the old
woman informed him that she knew not only Sobakevitch, but also
Manilov, and that the latter was the more delicate eater of the two, since,
whereas Manilov always ordered a roast fowl and some veal and mutton,
and then tasted merely a morsel of each, Sobakevitch would order one dish
only, but consume the whole of it, and then demand more at the same price.
Whilst Chichikov was thus conversing and partaking of the sucking pig
until only a fragment of it seemed likely to remain, the sound of an
approaching vehicle made itself heard. Peering through the window, he saw
draw up to the tavern door a light britchka drawn by three fine horses. From
it there descended two men—one flaxen-haired and tall, and the other dark-
haired and of slighter build. While the flaxen-haired man was clad in a
dark-blue coat, the other one was wrapped in a coat of striped pattern.
Behind the britchka stood a second, but an empty, turn-out, drawn by four
long-coated steeds in ragged collars and rope harnesses. The flaxen-haired
man lost no time in ascending the staircase, while his darker friend
remained below to fumble at something in the britchka, talking, as he did
so, to the driver of the vehicle which stood hitched behind. Somehow, the
dark-haired man’s voice struck Chichikov as familiar; and as he was taking
another look at him the flaxen-haired gentleman entered the room. The
newcomer was a man of lofty stature, with a small red moustache and a
lean, hard-bitten face whose redness made it evident that its acquaintance, if
not with the smoke of gunpowder, at all events with that of tobacco, was
intimate and extensive. Nevertheless he greeted Chichikov civilly, and the
latter returned his bow. Indeed, the pair would have entered into
conversation, and have made one another’s acquaintance (since a beginning
was made with their simultaneously expressing satisfaction at the
circumstance that the previous night’s rain had laid the dust on the roads,
and thereby made driving cool and pleasant) when the gentleman’s darker-
favoured friend also entered the room, and, throwing his cap upon the table,
pushed back a mass of dishevelled black locks from his brow. The latest
arrival was a man of medium height, but well put together, and possessed of
a pair of full red cheeks, a set of teeth as white as snow, and coal-black
whiskers. Indeed, so fresh was his complexion that it seemed to have been
compounded of blood and milk, while health danced in his every feature.
“Ha, ha, ha!” he cried with a gesture of astonishment at the sight of
Chichikov. “What chance brings YOU here?”

Upon that Chichikov recognised Nozdrev—the man whom he had met at
dinner at the Public Prosecutor’s, and who, within a minute or two of the
introduction, had become so intimate with his fellow guest as to address
him in the second person singular, in spite of the fact that Chichikov had
given him no opportunity for doing so.
“Where have you been to-day?” Nozdrev inquired, and, without waiting
for an answer, went on: “For myself, I am just from the fair, and completely
cleaned out. Actually, I have had to do the journey back with stage horses!
Look out of the window, and see them for yourself.” And he turned
Chichikov’s head so sharply in the desired direction that he came very near
to bumping it against the window frame. “Did you ever see such a bag of
tricks? The cursed things have only just managed to get here. In fact, on the
way I had to transfer myself to this fellow’s britchka.” He indicated his
companion with a finger. “By the way, don’t you know one another? He is
Mizhuev, my brother-in-law. He and I were talking of you only this
morning. ‘Just you see,’ said I to him, ‘if we do not fall in with Chichikov
before we have done.’ Heavens, how completely cleaned out I am! Not only
have I lost four good horses, but also my watch and chain.” Chichikov
perceived that in very truth his interlocutor was minus the articles named, as
well as that one of Nozdrev’s whiskers was less bushy in appearance than
the other one. “Had I had another twenty roubles in my pocket,” went on
Nozdrev, “I should have won back all that I have lost, as well as have
pouched a further thirty thousand. Yes, I give you my word of honour on
that.”
“But you were saying the same thing when last I met you,” put in the
flaxen-haired man. “Yet, even though I lent you fifty roubles, you lost them
all.”
“But I should not have lost them THIS time. Don’t try to make me out a
fool. I should NOT have lost them, I tell you. Had I only played the right
card, I should have broken the bank.”
“But you did NOT break the bank,” remarked the flaxen-haired man.
“No. That was because I did not play my cards right. But what about your
precious major’s play? Is THAT good?”
“Good or not, at least he beat you.”
“Splendid of him! Nevertheless I will get my own back. Let him play me
at doubles, and we shall soon see what sort of a player he is! Friend

Chichikov, at first we had a glorious time, for the fair was a tremendous
success. Indeed, the tradesmen said that never yet had there been such a
gathering. I myself managed to sell everything from my estate at a good
price. In fact, we had a magnificent time. I can’t help thinking of it, devil
take me! But what a pity YOU were not there! Three versts from the town
there is quartered a regiment of dragoons, and you would scarcely believe
what a lot of officers it has. Forty at least there are, and they do a fine lot of
knocking about the town and drinking. In particular, Staff-Captain
Potsieluev is a SPLENDID fellow! You should just see his moustache!
Why, he calls good claret ‘trash’! ‘Bring me some of the usual trash,’ is his
way of ordering it. And Lieutenant Kuvshinnikov, too! He is as delightful as
the other man. In fact, I may say that every one of the lot is a rake. I spent
my whole time with them, and you can imagine that Ponomarev, the wine
merchant, did a fine trade indeed! All the same, he is a rascal, you know,
and ought not to be dealt with, for he puts all sorts of rubbish into his liquor
—Indian wood and burnt cork and elderberry juice, the villain!
Nevertheless, get him to produce a bottle from what he calls his ‘special
cellar,’ and you will fancy yourself in the seventh heaven of delight. And
what quantities of champagne we drank! Compared with it, provincial stuff
is kvass 18. Try to imagine not merely Clicquot, but a sort of blend of
Clicquot and Matradura—Clicquot of double strength. Also Ponomarev
produced a bottle of French stuff which he calls ‘Bonbon.’ Had it a bouquet,
ask you? Why, it had the bouquet of a rose garden, of anything else you
like. What times we had, to be sure! Just after we had left Pnomarev’s
place, some prince or another arrived in the town, and sent out for some
champagne; but not a bottle was there left, for the officers had drunk every
one! Why, I myself got through seventeen bottles at a sitting.”
“Come, come! You CAN’T have got through seventeen,” remarked the
flaxen-haired man.
“But I did, I give my word of honour,” retorted Nozdrev.
“Imagine what you like, but you didn’t drink even TEN bottles at a
sitting.”
“Will you bet that I did not?”
“No; for what would be the use of betting about it?”
“Then at least wager the gun which you have bought.”
“No, I am not going to do anything of the kind.”

“Just as an experiment?”
“No.”
“It is as well for you that you don’t, since, otherwise, you would have
found yourself minus both gun and cap. However, friend Chichikov, it is a
pity you were not there. Had you been there, I feel sure you would have
found yourself unable to part with Lieutenant Kuvshinnikov. You and he
would have hit it off splendidly. You know, he is quite a different sort from
the Public Prosecutor and our other provincial skinflints—fellows who
shiver in their shoes before they will spend a single kopeck. HE will play
faro, or anything else, and at any time. Why did you not come with us,
instead of wasting your time on cattle breeding or something of the sort?
But never mind. Embrace me. I like you immensely. Mizhuev, see how
curiously things have turned out. Chichikov has nothing to do with me, or I
with him, yet here is he come from God knows where, and landed in the
very spot where I happen to be living! I may tell you that, no matter how
many carriages I possessed, I should gamble the lot away. Recently I went
in for a turn at billiards, and lost two jars of pomade, a china teapot, and a
guitar. Then I staked some more things, and, like a fool, lost them all, and
six roubles in addition. What a dog is that Kuvshinnikov! He and I attended
nearly every ball in the place. In particular, there was a woman—decolletee,
and such a swell! I merely thought to myself, ‘The devil take her!’ but
Kuvshinnikov is such a wag that he sat down beside her, and began paying
her strings of compliments in French. However, I did not neglect the
damsels altogether—although HE calls that sort of thing ‘going in for
strawberries.’ By the way, I have a splendid piece of fish and some caviare
with me. ’Tis all I HAVE brought back! In fact it is a lucky chance that I
happened to buy the stuff before my money was gone. Where are you for?”
“I am about to call on a friend.”
“On what friend? Let him go to the devil, and come to my place instead.”
“I cannot, I cannot. I have business to do.”
“Oh, business again! I thought so!”
“But I HAVE business to do—and pressing business at that.”
“I wager that you’re lying. If not, tell me whom you’re going to call
upon.”
“Upon Sobakevitch.”

Instantly Nozdrev burst into a laugh compassable only by a healthy man
in whose head every tooth still remains as white as sugar. By this I mean the
laugh of quivering cheeks, the laugh which causes a neighbour who is
sleeping behind double doors three rooms away to leap from his bed and
exclaim with distended eyes, “Hullo! Something HAS upset him!”
“What is there to laugh at?” asked Chichikov, a trifle nettled; but
Nozdrev laughed more unrestrainedly than ever, ejaculating: “Oh, spare us
all! The thing is so amusing that I shall die of it!”
“I say that there is nothing to laugh at,” repeated Chichikov. “It is in
fulfilment of a promise that I am on my way to Sobakevitch’s.”
“Then you will scarcely be glad to be alive when you’ve got there, for he
is the veriest miser in the countryside. Oh, I know you. However, if you
think to find there either faro or a bottle of ‘Bonbon’ you are mistaken.
Look here, my good friend. Let Sobakevitch go to the devil, and come to
MY place, where at least I shall have a piece of sturgeon to offer you for
dinner. Ponomarev said to me on parting: ‘This piece is just the thing for
you. Even if you were to search the whole market, you would never find a
better one.’ But of course he is a terrible rogue. I said to him outright: ‘You
and the Collector of Taxes are the two greatest skinflints in the town.’ But
he only stroked his beard and smiled. Every day I used to breakfast with
Kuvshinnikov in his restaurant. Well, what I was nearly forgetting is this:
that, though I am aware that you can’t forgo your engagement, I am not
going to give you up—no, not for ten thousand roubles of money. I tell you
that in advance.”
Here he broke off to run to the window and shout to his servant (who was
holding a knife in one hand and a crust of bread and a piece of sturgeon in
the other—he had contrived to filch the latter while fumbling in the britchka
for something else):
“Hi, Porphyri! Bring here that puppy, you rascal! What a puppy it is!
Unfortunately that thief of a landlord has given it nothing to eat, even
though I have promised him the roan filly which, as you may remember, I
swopped from Khvostirev.” As a matter of fact, Chichikov had never in his
life seen either Khvostirev or the roan filly.
“Barin, do you wish for anything to eat?” inquired the landlady as she
entered.

“No, nothing at all. Ah, friend Chichikov, what times we had! Yes, give
me a glass of vodka, old woman. What sort do you keep?”
“Aniseed.”
“Then bring me a glass of it,” repeated Nozdrev.
“And one for me as well,” added the flaxen-haired man.
“At the theatre,” went on Nozdrev, “there was an actress who sang like a
canary. Kuvshinnikov, who happened to be sitting with me, said: ‘My boy,
you had better go and gather that strawberry.’ As for the booths at the fair,
they numbered, I should say, fifty.” At this point he broke off to take the
glass of vodka from the landlady, who bowed low in acknowledgement of
his doing so. At the same moment Porphyri—a fellow dressed like his
master (that is to say, in a greasy, wadded overcoat)—entered with the
puppy.
“Put the brute down here,” commanded Nozdrev, “and then fasten it up.”
Porphyri deposited the animal upon the floor; whereupon it proceeded to
act after the manner of dogs.
“THERE’S a puppy for you!” cried Nozdrev, catching hold of it by the
back, and lifting it up. The puppy uttered a piteous yelp.
“I can see that you haven’t done what I told you to do,” he continued to
Porphyri after an inspection of the animal’s belly. “You have quite forgotten
to brush him.”
“I DID brush him,” protested Porphyri.
“Then where did these fleas come from?”
“I cannot think. Perhaps they have leapt into his coat out of the britchka.”
“You liar! As a matter of fact, you have forgotten to brush him.
Nevertheless, look at these ears, Chichikov. Just feel them.”
“Why should I? Without doing that, I can see that he is well-bred.”
“Nevertheless, catch hold of his ears and feel them.”
To humour the fellow Chichikov did as he had requested, remarking:
“Yes, he seems likely to turn out well.”
“And feel the coldness of his nose! Just take it in your hand.”
Not wishing to offend his interlocutor, Chichikov felt the puppy’s nose,
saying: “Some day he will have an excellent scent.”

“Yes, will he not? ’Tis the right sort of muzzle for that. I must say that I
have long been wanting such a puppy. Porphyri, take him away again.”
Porphyri lifted up the puppy, and bore it downstairs.
“Look here, Chichikov,” resumed Nozdrev. “You MUST come to my
place. It lies only five versts away, and we can go there like the wind, and
you can visit Sobakevitch afterwards.”
“Shall I, or shall I not, go to Nozdrev’s?” reflected Chichikov. “Is he
likely to prove any more useful than the rest? Well, at least he is as
promising, even though he has lost so much at play. But he has a head on
his shoulders, and therefore I must go carefully if I am to tackle him
concerning my scheme.”
With that he added aloud: “Very well, I WILL come with you, but do not
let us be long, for my time is very precious.”
“That’s right, that’s right!” cried Nozdrev. “Splendid, splendid! Let me
embrace you!” And he fell upon Chichikov’s neck. “All three of us will go.”
“No, no,” put in the flaxen-haired man. “You must excuse me, for I must
be off home.”
“Rubbish, rubbish! I am NOT going to excuse you.”
“But my wife will be furious with me. You and Monsieur Chichikov must
change into the other britchka.”
“Come, come! The thing is not to be thought of.”
The flaxen-haired man was one of those people in whose character, at
first sight, there seems to lurk a certain grain of stubbornness—so much so
that, almost before one has begun to speak, they are ready to dispute one’s
words, and to disagree with anything that may be opposed to their peculiar
form of opinion. For instance, they will decline to have folly called wisdom,
or any tune danced to but their own. Always, however, will there become
manifest in their character a soft spot, and in the end they will accept what
hitherto they have denied, and call what is foolish sensible, and even dance
—yes, better than any one else will do—to a tune set by some one else. In
short, they generally begin well, but always end badly.
“Rubbish!” said Nozdrev in answer to a further objection on his brother-
in-law’s part. And, sure enough, no sooner had Nozdrev clapped his cap
upon his head than the flaxen-haired man started to follow him and his
companion.

“But the gentleman has not paid for the vodka?” put in the old woman.
“All right, all right, good mother. Look here, brother-in-law. Pay her, will
you, for I have not a kopeck left.”
“How much?” inquired the brother-in-law.
“What, sir? Eighty kopecks, if you please,” replied the old woman.
“A lie! Give her half a rouble. That will be quite enough.”
“No, it will NOT, barin,” protested the old woman. However, she took
the money gratefully, and even ran to the door to open it for the gentlemen.
As a matter of fact, she had lost nothing by the transaction, since she had
demanded fully a quarter more than the vodka was worth.
The travellers then took their seats, and since Chichikov’s britchka kept
alongside the britchka wherein Nozdrev and his brother-in-law were seated,
it was possible for all three men to converse together as they proceeded.
Behind them came Nozdrev’s smaller buggy, with its team of lean stage
horses and Porphyri and the puppy. But inasmuch as the conversation which
the travellers maintained was not of a kind likely to interest the reader, I
might do worse than say something concerning Nozdrev himself, seeing
that he is destined to play no small role in our story.
Nozdrev’s face will be familiar to the reader, seeing that every one must
have encountered many such. Fellows of the kind are known as “gay young
sparks,” and, even in their boyhood and school days, earn a reputation for
being bons camarades (though with it all they come in for some hard
knocks) for the reason that their faces evince an element of frankness,
directness, and enterprise which enables them soon to make friends, and,
almost before you have had time to look around, to start addressing you in
the second person singular. Yet, while cementing such friendships for all
eternity, almost always they begin quarrelling the same evening, since,
throughout, they are a loquacious, dissipated, high-spirited, over-showy
tribe. Indeed, at thirty-five Nozdrev was just what he had been an eighteen
and twenty—he was just such a lover of fast living. Nor had his marriage in
any way changed him, and the less so since his wife had soon departed to
another world, and left behind her two children, whom he did not want, and
who were therefore placed in the charge of a good-looking nursemaid.
Never at any time could he remain at home for more than a single day, for
his keen scent could range over scores and scores of versts, and detect any
fair which promised balls and crowds. Consequently in a trice he would be

there—quarrelling, and creating disturbances over the gaming-table (like all
men of his type, he had a perfect passion for cards) yet playing neither a
faultless nor an over-clean game, since he was both a blunderer and able to
indulge in a large number of illicit cuts and other devices. The result was
that the game often ended in another kind of sport altogether. That is to say,
either he received a good kicking, or he had his thick and very handsome
whiskers pulled; with the result that on certain occasions he returned home
with one of those appendages looking decidedly ragged. Yet his plump,
healthy-looking cheeks were so robustly constituted, and contained such an
abundance of recreative vigour, that a new whisker soon sprouted in place
of the old one, and even surpassed its predecessor. Again (and the following
is a phenomenon peculiar to Russia) a very short time would have elapsed
before once more he would be consorting with the very cronies who had
recently cuffed him—and consorting with them as though nothing
whatsoever had happened—no reference to the subject being made by him,
and they too holding their tongues.
In short, Nozdrev was, as it were, a man of incident. Never was he
present at any gathering without some sort of a fracas occurring thereat.
Either he would require to be expelled from the room by gendarmes, or his
friends would have to kick him out into the street. At all events, should
neither of those occurrences take place, at least he did something of a nature
which would not otherwise have been witnessed. That is to say, should he
not play the fool in a buffet to such an extent as to make every one smile,
you may be sure that he was engaged in lying to a degree which at times
abashed even himself. Moreover, the man lied without reason. For instance,
he would begin telling a story to the effect that he possessed a blue-coated
or a red-coated horse; until, in the end, his listeners would be forced to
leave him with the remark, “You are giving us some fine stuff, old fellow!”
Also, men like Nozdrev have a passion for insulting their neighbours
without the least excuse afforded. (For that matter, even a man of good
standing and of respectable exterior—a man with a star on his breast—may
unexpectedly press your hand one day, and begin talking to you on subjects
of a nature to give food for serious thought. Yet just as unexpectedly may
that man start abusing you to your face—and do so in a manner worthy of a
collegiate registrar rather than of a man who wears a star on his breast and
aspires to converse on subjects which merit reflection. All that one can do
in such a case is to stand shrugging one’s shoulders in amazement.) Well,

Nozdrev had just such a weakness. The more he became friendly with a
man, the sooner would he insult him, and be ready to spread calumnies as to
his reputation. Yet all the while he would consider himself the insulted
one’s friend, and, should he meet him again, would greet him in the most
amicable style possible, and say, “You rascal, why have you given up
coming to see me.” Thus, taken all round, Nozdrev was a person of many
aspects and numerous potentialities. In one and the same breath would he
propose to go with you whithersoever you might choose (even to the very
ends of the world should you so require) or to enter upon any sort of an
enterprise with you, or to exchange any commodity for any other
commodity which you might care to name. Guns, horses, dogs, all were
subjects for barter—though not for profit so far as YOU were concerned.
Such traits are mostly the outcome of a boisterous temperament, as is
additionally exemplified by the fact that if at a fair he chanced to fall in
with a simpleton and to fleece him, he would then proceed to buy a quantity
of the very first articles which came to hand—horse-collars, cigar-lighters,
dresses for his nursemaid, foals, raisins, silver ewers, lengths of holland,
wheatmeal, tobacco, revolvers, dried herrings, pictures, whetstones,
crockery, boots, and so forth, until every atom of his money was exhausted.
Yet seldom were these articles conveyed home, since, as a rule, the same
day saw them lost to some more skilful gambler, in addition to his pipe, his
tobacco-pouch, his mouthpiece, his four-horsed turn-out, and his coachman:
with the result that, stripped to his very shirt, he would be forced to beg the
loan of a vehicle from a friend.
Such was Nozdrev. Some may say that characters of his type have
become extinct, that Nozdrevs no longer exist. Alas! such as say this will be
wrong; for many a day must pass before the Nozdrevs will have
disappeared from our ken. Everywhere they are to be seen in our midst—
the only difference between the new and the old being a difference of
garments. Persons of superficial observation are apt to consider that a man
clad in a different coat is quite a different person from what he used to be.
To continue. The three vehicles bowled up to the steps of Nozdrev’s
house, and their occupants alighted. But no preparations whatsoever had
been made for the guest’s reception, for on some wooden trestles in the
centre of the dining-room a couple of peasants were engaged in
whitewashing the ceiling and drawling out an endless song as they splashed
their stuff about the floor. Hastily bidding peasants and trestles to be gone,

Nozdrev departed to another room with further instructions. Indeed, so
audible was the sound of his voice as he ordered dinner that Chichikov—
who was beginning to feel hungry once more—was enabled to gather that it
would be at least five o’clock before a meal of any kind would be available.
On his return, Nozdrev invited his companions to inspect his establishment
—even though as early as two o’clock he had to announce that nothing
more was to be seen.
The tour began with a view of the stables, where the party saw two mares
(the one a grey, and the other a roan) and a colt; which latter animal, though
far from showy, Nozdrev declared to have cost him ten thousand roubles.
“You NEVER paid ten thousand roubles for the brute!” exclaimed the
brother-in-law. “He isn’t worth even a thousand.”
“By God, I DID pay ten thousand!” asserted Nozdrev.
“You can swear that as much as you like,” retorted the other.
“Will you bet that I did not?” asked Nozdrev, but the brother-in-law
declined the offer.
Next, Nozdrev showed his guests some empty stalls where a number of
equally fine animals (so he alleged) had lately stood. Also there was on
view the goat which an old belief still considers to be an indispensable
adjunct to such places, even though its apparent use is to pace up and down
beneath the noses of the horses as though the place belonged to it.
Thereafter the host took his guests to look at a young wolf which he had got
tied to a chain. “He is fed on nothing but raw meat,” he explained, “for I
want him to grow up as fierce as possible.” Then the party inspected a pond
in which there were “fish of such a size that it would take two men all their
time to lift one of them out.”
This piece of information was received with renewed incredulity on the
part of the brother-in-law.
“Now, Chichikov,” went on Nozdrev, “let me show you a truly
magnificent brace of dogs. The hardness of their muscles will surprise you,
and they have jowls as sharp as needles.”
So saying, he led the way to a small, but neatly-built, shed surrounded on
every side with a fenced-in run. Entering this run, the visitors beheld a
number of dogs of all sorts and sizes and colours. In their midst Nozdrev
looked like a father lording it over his family circle. Erecting their tails—

their “stems,” as dog fanciers call those members—the animals came
bounding to greet the party, and fully a score of them laid their paws upon
Chichikov’s shoulders. Indeed, one dog was moved with such friendliness
that, standing on its hind legs, it licked him on the lips, and so forced him to
spit. That done, the visitors duly inspected the couple already mentioned,
and expressed astonishment at their muscles. True enough, they were fine
animals. Next, the party looked at a Crimean bitch which, though blind and
fast nearing her end, had, two years ago, been a truly magnificent dog. At
all events, so said Nozdrev. Next came another bitch—also blind; then an
inspection of the water-mill, which lacked the spindle-socket wherein the
upper stone ought to have been revolving—“fluttering,” to use the Russian
peasant’s quaint expression. “But never mind,” said Nozdrev. “Let us
proceed to the blacksmith’s shop.” So to the blacksmith’s shop the party
proceeded, and when the said shop had been viewed, Nozdrev said as he
pointed to a field:
“In this field I have seen such numbers of hares as to render the ground
quite invisible. Indeed, on one occasion I, with my own hands, caught a
hare by the hind legs.”
“You never caught a hare by the hind legs with your hands!” remarked
the brother-in-law.
“But I DID” reiterated Nozdrev. “However, let me show you the
boundary where my lands come to an end.”
So saying, he started to conduct his guests across a field which consisted
mostly of moleheaps, and in which the party had to pick their way between
strips of ploughed land and of harrowed. Soon Chichikov began to feel
weary, for the terrain was so low-lying that in many spots water could be
heard squelching underfoot, and though for a while the visitors watched
their feet, and stepped carefully, they soon perceived that such a course
availed them nothing, and took to following their noses, without either
selecting or avoiding the spots where the mire happened to be deeper or the
reverse. At length, when a considerable distance had been covered, they
caught sight of a boundary-post and a narrow ditch.
“That is the boundary,” said Nozdrev. “Everything that you see on this
side of the post is mine, as well as the forest on the other side of it, and
what lies beyond the forest.”

“WHEN did that forest become yours?” asked the brother-in-law. “It
cannot be long since you purchased it, for it never USED to be yours.”
“Yes, it isn’t long since I purchased it,” said Nozdrev.
“How long?”
“How long? Why, I purchased it three days ago, and gave a pretty sum
for it, as the devil knows!”
“Indeed? Why, three days ago you were at the fair?”
“Wiseacre! Cannot one be at a fair and buy land at the same time? Yes, I
WAS at the fair, and my steward bought the land in my absence.”
“Oh, your STEWARD bought it.” The brother-in-law seemed doubtful,
and shook his head.
The guests returned by the same route as that by which they had come;
whereafter, on reaching the house, Nozdrev conducted them to his study,
which contained not a trace of the things usually to be found in such
apartments—such things as books and papers. On the contrary, the only
articles to be seen were a sword and a brace of guns—the one “of them
worth three hundred roubles,” and the other “about eight hundred.” The
brother-in-law inspected the articles in question, and then shook his head as
before. Next, the visitors were shown some “real Turkish” daggers, of
which one bore the inadvertent inscription, “Saveli Sibiriakov 19, Master
Cutler.” Then came a barrel-organ, on which Nozdrev started to play some
tune or another. For a while the sounds were not wholly unpleasing, but
suddenly something seemed to go wrong, for a mazurka started, to be
followed by “Marlborough has gone to the war,” and to this, again, there
succeeded an antiquated waltz. Also, long after Nozdrev had ceased to turn
the handle, one particularly shrill-pitched pipe which had, throughout,
refused to harmonise with the rest kept up a protracted whistling on its own
account. Then followed an exhibition of tobacco pipes—pipes of clay, of
wood, of meerschaum, pipes smoked and non-smoked; pipes wrapped in
chamois leather and not so wrapped; an amber-mounted hookah (a stake
won at cards) and a tobacco pouch (worked, it was alleged, by some
countess who had fallen in love with Nozdrev at a posthouse, and whose
handiwork Nozdrev averred to constitute the “sublimity of superfluity”—a
term which, in the Nozdrevian vocabulary, purported to signify the acme of
perfection).

Finally, after some hors-d’oeuvres of sturgeon’s back, they sat down to
table—the time being then nearly five o’clock. But the meal did not
constitute by any means the best of which Chichikov had ever partaken,
seeing that some of the dishes were overcooked, and others were scarcely
cooked at all. Evidently their compounder had trusted chiefly to inspiration
—she had laid hold of the first thing which had happened to come to hand.
For instance, had pepper represented the nearest article within reach, she
had added pepper wholesale. Had a cabbage chanced to be so encountered,
she had pressed it also into the service. And the same with milk, bacon, and
peas. In short, her rule seemed to have been “Make a hot dish of some sort,
and some sort of taste will result.” For the rest, Nozdrev drew heavily upon
the wine. Even before the soup had been served, he had poured out for each
guest a bumper of port and another of “haut” sauterne. (Never in provincial
towns is ordinary, vulgar sauterne even procurable.) Next, he called for a
bottle of madeira—“as fine a tipple as ever a field-marshall drank”; but the
madeira only burnt the mouth, since the dealers, familiar with the taste of
our landed gentry (who love “good” madeira) invariably doctor the stuff
with copious dashes of rum and Imperial vodka, in the hope that Russian
stomachs will thus be enabled to carry off the lot. After this bottle Nozdrev
called for another and “a very special” brand—a brand which he declared to
consist of a blend of burgundy and champagne, and of which he poured
generous measures into the glasses of Chichikov and the brother-in-law as
they sat to right and left of him. But since Chichikov noticed that, after
doing so, he added only a scanty modicum of the mixture to his own
tumbler, our hero determined to be cautious, and therefore took advantage
of a moment when Nozdrev had again plunged into conversation and was
yet a third time engaged in refilling his brother-in-law’s glass, to contrive to
upset his (Chichikov’s) glass over his plate. In time there came also to table
a tart of mountain-ashberries—berries which the host declared to equal, in
taste, ripe plums, but which, curiously enough, smacked more of corn
brandy. Next, the company consumed a sort of pasty of which the precise
name has escaped me, but which the host rendered differently even on the
second occasion of its being mentioned. The meal over, and the whole tale
of wines tried, the guests still retained their seats—a circumstance which
embarrassed Chichikov, seeing that he had no mind to propound his pet
scheme in the presence of Nozdrev’s brother-in-law, who was a complete
stranger to him. No, that subject called for amicable and PRIVATE

conversation. Nevertheless, the brother-in-law appeared to bode little
danger, seeing that he had taken on board a full cargo, and was now
engaged in doing nothing of a more menacing nature than picking his nose.
At length he himself noticed that he was not altogether in a responsible
condition; wherefore he rose and began to make excuses for departing
homewards, though in a tone so drowsy and lethargic that, to quote the
Russian proverb, he might almost have been “pulling a collar on to a horse
by the clasps.”
“No, no!” cried Nozdrev. “I am NOT going to let you go.”
“But I MUST go,” replied the brother-in-law. “Don’t try to hinder me.
You are annoying me greatly.”
“Rubbish! We are going to play a game of banker.”
“No, no. You must play it without me, my friend. My wife is expecting
me at home, and I must go and tell her all about the fair. Yes, I MUST go if
I am to please her. Do not try to detain me.”
“Your wife be—! But have you REALLY an important piece of business
with her?”
“No, no, my friend. The real reason is that she is a good and trustful
woman, and that she does a great deal for me. The tears spring to my eyes
as I think of it. Do not detain me. As an honourable man I say that I must
go. Of that I do assure you in all sincerity.”
“Oh, let him go,” put in Chichikov under his breath. “What use will he be
here?”
“Very well,” said Nozdrev, “though, damn it, I do not like fellows who
lose their heads.” Then he added to his brother-in-law: “All right, Thetuk 20.
Off you go to your wife and your woman’s talk and may the devil go with
you!”
“Do not insult me with the term Thetuk,” retorted the brother-in-law. “To
her I owe my life, and she is a dear, good woman, and has shown me much
affection. At the very thought of it I could weep. You see, she will be asking
me what I have seen at the fair, and tell her about it I must, for she is such a
dear, good woman.”
“Then off you go to her with your pack of lies. Here is your cap.”
“No, good friend, you are not to speak of her like that. By so doing you
offend me greatly—I say that she is a dear, good woman.”

“Then run along home to her.”
“Yes, I am just going. Excuse me for having been unable to stay. Gladly
would I have stayed, but really I cannot.”
The brother-in-law repeated his excuses again and again without noticing
that he had entered the britchka, that it had passed through the gates, and
that he was now in the open country. Permissibly we may suppose that his
wife succeeded in gleaning from him few details of the fair.
“What a fool!” said Nozdrev as, standing by the window, he watched the
departing vehicle. “Yet his off-horse is not such a bad one. For a long time
past I have been wanting to get hold of it. A man like that is simply
impossible. Yes, he is a Thetuk, a regular Thetuk.”
With that they repaired to the parlour, where, on Porphyri bringing
candles, Chichikov perceived that his host had produced a pack of cards.
“I tell you what,” said Nozdrev, pressing the sides of the pack together,
and then slightly bending them, so that the pack cracked and a card flew
out. “How would it be if, to pass the time, I were to make a bank of three
hundred?”
Chichikov pretended not to have heard him, but remarked with an air of
having just recollected a forgotten point:
“By the way, I had omitted to say that I have a request to make of you.”
“What request?”
“First give me your word that you will grant it.”
“What is the request, I say?”
“Then you give me your word, do you?”
“Certainly.”
“Your word of honour?”
“My word of honour.”
“This, then, is my request. I presume that you have a large number of
dead serfs whose names have not yet been removed from the revision list?”
“I have. But why do you ask?”
“Because I want you to make them over to me.”
“Of what use would they be to you?”
“Never mind. I have a purpose in wanting them.”

“What purpose?”
“A purpose which is strictly my own affair. In short, I need them.”
“You seem to have hatched a very fine scheme. Out with it, now! What is
in the wind?”
“How could I have hatched such a scheme as you say? One could not
very well hatch a scheme out of such a trifle as this.”
“Then for what purpose do you want the serfs?”
“Oh, the curiosity of the man! He wants to poke his fingers into and
smell over every detail!”
“Why do you decline to say what is in your mind? At all events, until you
DO say I shall not move in the matter.”
“But how would it benefit you to know what my plans are? A whim has
seized me. That is all. Nor are you playing fair. You have given me your
word of honour, yet now you are trying to back out of it.”
“No matter what you desire me to do, I decline to do it until you have
told me your purpose.”
“What am I to say to the fellow?” thought Chichikov. He reflected for a
moment, and then explained that he wanted the dead souls in order to
acquire a better standing in society, since at present he possessed little
landed property, and only a handful of serfs.
“You are lying,” said Nozdrev without even letting him finish. “Yes, you
are lying my good friend.”
Chichikov himself perceived that his device had been a clumsy one, and
his pretext weak. “I must tell him straight out,” he said to himself as he
pulled his wits together.
“Should I tell you the truth,” he added aloud, “I must beg of you not to
repeat it. The truth is that I am thinking of getting married. But,
unfortunately, my betrothed’s father and mother are very ambitious people,
and do not want me to marry her, since they desire the bridegroom to own
not less than three hundred souls, whereas I own but a hundred and fifty,
and that number is not sufficient.”
“Again you are lying,” said Nozdrev.
“Then look here; I have been lying only to this extent.” And Chichikov
marked off upon his little finger a minute portion.

“Nevertheless I will bet my head that you have been lying throughout.”
“Come, come! That is not very civil of you. Why should I have been
lying?”
“Because I know you, and know that you are a regular skinflint. I say that
in all friendship. If I possessed any power over you I should hang you to the
nearest tree.”
This remark hurt Chichikov, for at any time he disliked expressions gross
or offensive to decency, and never allowed any one—no, not even persons
of the highest rank—to behave towards him with an undue measure of
familiarity. Consequently his sense of umbrage on the present occasion was
unbounded.
“By God, I WOULD hang you!” repeated Nozdrev. “I say this frankly,
and not for the purpose of offending you, but simply to communicate to you
my friendly opinion.”
“To everything there are limits,” retorted Chichikov stiffly. “If you want
to indulge in speeches of that sort you had better return to the barracks.”
However, after a pause he added:
“If you do not care to give me the serfs, why not SELL them?”
“SELL them? I know you, you rascal! You wouldn’t give me very much
for them, WOULD you?”
“A nice fellow! Look here. What are they to you? So many diamonds,
eh?”
“I thought so! I know you!”
“Pardon me, but I could wish that you were a member of the Jewish
persuasion. You would give them to me fast enough then.”
“On the contrary, to show you that I am not a usurer, I will decline to ask
of you a single kopeck for the serfs. All that you need do is to buy that colt
of mine, and then I will throw in the serfs in addition.”
“But what should I want with your colt?” said Chichikov, genuinely
astonished at the proposal.
“What should YOU want with him? Why, I have bought him for ten
thousand roubles, and am ready to let you have him for four.”
“I ask you again: of what use could the colt possibly be to me? I am not
the keeper of a breeding establishment.”

“Ah! I see that you fail to understand me. Let me suggest that you pay
down at once three thousand roubles of the purchase money, and leave the
other thousand until later.”
“But I do not mean to buy the colt, damn him!”
“Then buy the roan mare.”
“No, nor the roan mare.”
“Then you shall have both the mare and the grey horse which you have
seen in my stables for two thousand roubles.”
“I require no horses at all.”
“But you would be able to sell them again. You would be able to get
thrice their purchase price at the very first fair that was held.”
“Then sell them at that fair yourself, seeing that you are so certain of
making a triple profit.”
“Oh, I should make it fast enough, only I want YOU to benefit by the
transaction.”
Chichikov duly thanked his interlocutor, but continued to decline either
the grey horse or the roan mare.
“Then buy a few dogs,” said Nozdrev. “I can sell you a couple of hides a-
quiver, ears well pricked, coats like quills, ribs barrel-shaped, and paws so
tucked up as scarcely to graze the ground when they run.”
“Of what use would those dogs be to me? I am not a sportsman.”
“But I WANT you to have the dogs. Listen. If you won’t have the dogs,
then buy my barrel-organ. ’Tis a splendid instrument. As a man of honour I
can tell you that, when new, it cost me fifteen hundred roubles. Well, you
shall have it for nine hundred.”
“Come, come! What should I want with a barrel-organ? I am not a
German, to go hauling it about the roads and begging for coppers.”
“But this is quite a different kind of organ from the one which Germans
take about with them. You see, it is a REAL organ. Look at it for yourself. It
is made of the best wood. I will take you to have another view of it.”
And seizing Chichikov by the hand, Nozdrev drew him towards the other
room, where, in spite of the fact that Chichikov, with his feet planted firmly
on the floor, assured his host, again and again, that he knew exactly what

the organ was like, he was forced once more to hear how Marlborough went
to the war.
“Then, since you don’t care to give me any money for it,” persisted
Nozdrev, “listen to the following proposal. I will give you the barrel-organ
and all the dead souls which I possess, and in return you shall give me your
britchka, and another three hundred roubles into the bargain.”
“Listen to the man! In that case, what should I have left to drive in?”
“Oh, I would stand you another britchka. Come to the coach-house, and I
will show you the one I mean. It only needs repainting to look a perfectly
splendid britchka.”
“The ramping, incorrigible devil!” thought Chichikov to himself as at all
hazards he resolved to escape from britchkas, organs, and every species of
dog, however marvellously barrel-ribbed and tucked up of paw.
“And in exchange, you shall have the britchka, the barrel-organ, and the
dead souls,” repeated Nozdrev.
“I must decline the offer,” said Chichikov.
“And why?”
“Because I don’t WANT the things—I am full up already.”
“I can see that you don’t know how things should be done between good
friends and comrades. Plainly you are a man of two faces.”
“What do you mean, you fool? Think for yourself. Why should I acquire
articles which I don’t want?”
“Say no more about it, if you please. I have quite taken your measure.
But see here. Should you care to play a game of banker? I am ready to stake
both the dead souls and the barrel-organ at cards.”
“No; to leave an issue to cards means to submit oneself to the unknown,”
said Chichikov, covertly glancing at the pack which Nozdrev had got in his
hands. Somehow the way in which his companion had cut that pack seemed
to him suspicious.
“Why ‘to the unknown’?” asked Nozdrev. “There is no such thing as ‘the
unknown.’ Should luck be on your side, you may win the devil knows what
a haul. Oh, luck, luck!” he went on, beginning to deal, in the hope of raising
a quarrel. “Here is the cursed nine upon which, the other night, I lost

everything. All along I knew that I should lose my money. Said I to myself:
‘The devil take you, you false, accursed card!’”
Just as Nozdrev uttered the words Porphyri entered with a fresh bottle of
liquor; but Chichikov declined either to play or to drink.
“Why do you refuse to play?” asked Nozdrev.
“Because I feel indisposed to do so. Moreover, I must confess that I am
no great hand at cards.”
“WHY are you no great hand at them?”
Chichikov shrugged his shoulders. “Because I am not,” he replied.
“You are no great hand at ANYTHING, I think.”
“What does that matter? God has made me so.”
“The truth is that you are a Thetuk, and nothing else. Once upon a time I
believed you to be a good fellow, but now I see that you don’t understand
civility. One cannot speak to you as one would to an intimate, for there is no
frankness or sincerity about you. You are a regular Sobakevitch—just such
another as he.”
“For what reason are you abusing me? Am I in any way at fault for
declining to play cards? Sell me those souls if you are the man to hesitate
over such rubbish.”
“The foul fiend take you! I was about to have given them to you for
nothing, but now you shan’t have them at all—not if you offer me three
kingdoms in exchange. Henceforth I will have nothing to do with you, you
cobbler, you dirty blacksmith! Porphyri, go and tell the ostler to give the
gentleman’s horses no oats, but only hay.”
This development Chichikov had hardly expected.
“And do you,” added Nozdrev to his guest, “get out of my sight.”
Yet in spite of this, host and guest took supper together—even though on
this occasion the table was adorned with no wines of fictitious
nomenclature, but only with a bottle which reared its solitary head beside a
jug of what is usually known as vin ordinaire. When supper was over
Nozdrev said to Chichikov as he conducted him to a side room where a bed
had been made up:
“This is where you are to sleep. I cannot very well wish you good-night.”

Left to himself on Nozdrev’s departure, Chichikov felt in a most
unenviable frame of mind. Full of inward vexation, he blamed himself
bitterly for having come to see this man and so wasted valuable time; but
even more did he blame himself for having told him of his scheme—for
having acted as carelessly as a child or a madman. Of a surety the scheme
was not one which ought to have been confided to a man like Nozdrev, for
he was a worthless fellow who might lie about it, and append additions to it,
and spread such stories as would give rise to God knows what scandals.
“This is indeed bad!” Chichikov said to himself. “I have been an absolute
fool.” Consequently he spent an uneasy night—this uneasiness being
increased by the fact that a number of small, but vigorous, insects so feasted
upon him that he could do nothing but scratch the spots and exclaim, “The
devil take you and Nozdrev alike!” Only when morning was approaching
did he fall asleep. On rising, he made it his first business (after donning
dressing-gown and slippers) to cross the courtyard to the stable, for the
purpose of ordering Selifan to harness the britchka. Just as he was returning
from his errand he encountered Nozdrev, clad in a dressing-gown, and
holding a pipe between his teeth.
Host and guest greeted one another in friendly fashion, and Nozdrev
inquired how Chichikov had slept.
“Fairly well,” replied Chichikov, but with a touch of dryness in his tone.
“The same with myself,” said Nozdrev. “The truth is that such a lot of
nasty brutes kept crawling over me that even to speak of it gives me the
shudders. Likewise, as the effect of last night’s doings, a whole squadron of
soldiers seemed to be camping on my chest, and giving me a flogging. Ugh!
And whom also do you think I saw in a dream? You would never guess.
Why, it was Staff-Captain Potsieluev and Lieutenant Kuvshinnikov!”
“Yes,” though Chichikov to himself, “and I wish that they too would give
you a public thrashing!”
“I felt so ill!” went on Nozdrev. “And just after I had fallen asleep
something DID come and sting me. Probably it was a party of hag fleas.
Now, dress yourself, and I will be with you presently. First of all I must give
that scoundrel of a bailiff a wigging.”
Chichikov departed to his own room to wash and dress; which process
completed, he entered the dining-room to find the table laid with tea-things
and a bottle of rum. Clearly no broom had yet touched the place, for there

remained traces of the previous night’s dinner and supper in the shape of
crumbs thrown over the floor and tobacco ash on the tablecloth. The host
himself, when he entered, was still clad in a dressing-gown exposing a hairy
chest; and as he sat holding his pipe in his hand, and drinking tea from a
cup, he would have made a model for the sort of painter who prefers to
portray gentlemen of the less curled and scented order.
“What think you?” he asked of Chichikov after a short silence. “Are you
willing NOW to play me for those souls?”
“I have told you that I never play cards. If the souls are for sale, I will
buy them.”
“I decline to sell them. Such would not be the course proper between
friends. But a game of banker would be quite another matter. Let us deal the
cards.”
“I have told you that I decline to play.”
“And you will not agree to an exchange?”
“No.”
“Then look here. Suppose we play a game of chess. If you win, the souls
shall be yours. There are lots which I should like to see crossed off the
revision list. Hi, Porphyri! Bring me the chessboard.”
“You are wasting your time. I will play neither chess nor cards.”
“But chess is different from playing with a bank. In chess there can be
neither luck nor cheating, for everything depends upon skill. In fact, I warn
you that I cannot possibly play with you unless you allow me a move or two
in advance.”
“The same with me,” thought Chichikov. “Shall I, or shall I not, play this
fellow? I used not to be a bad chess-player, and it is a sport in which he
would find it more difficult to be up to his tricks.”
“Very well,” he added aloud. “I WILL play you at chess.”
“And stake the souls for a hundred roubles?” asked Nozdrev.
“No. Why for a hundred? Would it not be sufficient to stake them for
fifty?”
“No. What would be the use of fifty? Nevertheless, for the hundred
roubles I will throw in a moderately old puppy, or else a gold seal and
watch-chain.”

“Very well,” assented Chichikov.
“Then how many moves are you going to allow me?”
“Is THAT to be part of the bargain? Why, none, of course.”
“At least allow me two.”
“No, none. I myself am only a poor player.”
“I know you and your poor play,” said Nozdrev, moving a chessman.
“In fact, it is a long time since last I had a chessman in my hand,” replied
Chichikov, also moving a piece.
“Ah! I know you and your poor play,” repeated Nozdrev, moving a
second chessman.
“I say again that it is a long time since last I had a chessman in my hand.”
And Chichikov, in his turn, moved.
“Ah! I know you and your poor play,” repeated Nozdrev, for the third
time as he made a third move. At the same moment the cuff of one of his
sleeves happened to dislodge another chessman from its position.
“Again, I say,” said Chichikov, “that ’tis a long time since last—But hi!
look here! Put that piece back in its place!”
“What piece?”
“This one.” And almost as Chichikov spoke he saw a third chessman
coming into view between the queens. God only knows whence that
chessman had materialised.
“No, no!” shouted Chichikov as he rose from the table. “It is impossible
to play with a man like you. People don’t move three pieces at once.”
“How ‘three pieces’? All that I have done is to make a mistake—to move
one of my pieces by accident. If you like, I will forfeit it to you.”
“And whence has the third piece come?”
“What third piece?”
“The one now standing between the queens?”
“’Tis one of your own pieces. Surely you are forgetting?”
“No, no, my friend. I have counted every move, and can remember each
one. That piece has only just become added to the board. Put it back in its
place, I say.”

“Its place? Which IS its place?” But Nozdrev had reddened a good deal.
“I perceive you to be a strategist at the game.”
“No, no, good friend. YOU are the strategist—though an unsuccessful
one, as it happens.”
“Then of what are you supposing me capable? Of cheating you?”
“I am not supposing you capable of anything. All that I say is that I will
not play with you any more.”
“But you can’t refuse to,” said Nozdrev, growing heated. “You see, the
game has begun.”
“Nevertheless, I have a right not to continue it, seeing that you are not
playing as an honest man should do.”
“You are lying—you cannot truthfully say that.”
“’Tis you who are lying.”
“But I have NOT cheated. Consequently you cannot refuse to play, but
must continue the game to a finish.”
“You cannot force me to play,” retorted Chichikov coldly as, turning to
the chessboard, he swept the pieces into confusion.
Nozdrev approached Chichikov with a manner so threatening that the
other fell back a couple of paces.
“I WILL force you to play,” said Nozdrev. “It is no use you making a
mess of the chessboard, for I can remember every move. We will replace
the chessmen exactly as they were.”
“No, no, my friend. The game is over, and I play you no more.”
“You say that you will not?”
“Yes. Surely you can see for yourself that such a thing is impossible?”
“That cock won’t fight. Say at once that you refuse to play with me.” And
Nozdrev approached a step nearer.
“Very well; I DO say that,” replied Chichikov, and at the same moment
raised his hands towards his face, for the dispute was growing heated. Nor
was the act of caution altogether unwarranted, for Nozdrev also raised his
fist, and it may be that one of our hero’s plump, pleasant-looking cheeks
would have sustained an indelible insult had not he (Chichikov) parried the
blow and, seizing Nozdrev by his whirling arms, held them fast.

“Porphyri! Pavlushka!” shouted Nozdrev as madly he strove to free
himself.
On hearing the words, Chichikov, both because he wished to avoid
rendering the servants witnesses of the unedifying scene and because he felt
that it would be of no avail to hold Nozdrev any longer, let go of the latter’s
arms; but at the same moment Porphyri and Pavlushka entered the room—a
pair of stout rascals with whom it would be unwise to meddle.
“Do you, or do you not, intend to finish the game?” said Nozdrev. “Give
me a direct answer.”
“No; it will not be possible to finish the game,” replied Chichikov,
glancing out of the window. He could see his britchka standing ready for
him, and Selifan evidently awaiting orders to draw up to the entrance steps.
But from the room there was no escape, since in the doorway was posted
the couple of well-built serving-men.
“Then it is as I say? You refuse to finish the game?” repeated Nozdrev,
his face as red as fire.
“I would have finished it had you played like a man of honour. But, as it
is, I cannot.”
“You cannot, eh, you villain? You find that you cannot as soon as you
find that you are not winning? Thrash him, you fellows!” And as he spoke
Nozdrev grasped the cherrywood shank of his pipe. Chichikov turned as
white as a sheet. He tried to say something, but his quivering lips emitted
no sound. “Thrash him!” again shouted Nozdrev as he rushed forward in a
state of heat and perspiration more proper to a warrior who is attacking an
impregnable fortress. “Thrash him!” again he shouted in a voice like that of
some half-demented lieutenant whose desperate bravery has acquired such a
reputation that orders have had to be issued that his hands shall be held lest
he attempt deeds of over-presumptuous daring. Seized with the military
spirit, however, the lieutenant’s head begins to whirl, and before his eye
there flits the image of Suvorov 21. He advances to the great encounter, and
impulsively cries, “Forward, my sons!”—cries it without reflecting that he
may be spoiling the plan of the general attack, that millions of rifles may be
protruding their muzzles through the embrasures of the impregnable,
towering walls of the fortress, that his own impotent assault may be
destined to be dissipated like dust before the wind, and that already there
may have been launched on its whistling career the bullet which is to close

for ever his vociferous throat. However, if Nozdrev resembled the
headstrong, desperate lieutenant whom we have just pictured as advancing
upon a fortress, at least the fortress itself in no way resembled the
impregnable stronghold which I have described. As a matter of fact, the
fortress became seized with a panic which drove its spirit into its boots.
First of all, the chair with which Chichikov (the fortress in question) sought
to defend himself was wrested from his grasp by the serfs, and then—
blinking and neither alive nor dead—he turned to parry the Circassian pipe-
stem of his host. In fact, God only knows what would have happened had
not the fates been pleased by a miracle to deliver Chichikov’s elegant back
and shoulders from the onslaught. Suddenly, and as unexpectedly as though
the sound had come from the clouds, there made itself heard the tinkling
notes of a collar-bell, and then the rumble of wheels approaching the
entrance steps, and, lastly, the snorting and hard breathing of a team of
horses as a vehicle came to a standstill. Involuntarily all present glanced
through the window, and saw a man clad in a semi-military greatcoat leap
from a buggy. After making an inquiry or two in the hall, he entered the
dining-room just at the juncture when Chichikov, almost swooning with
terror, had found himself placed in about as awkward a situation as could
well befall a mortal man.
“Kindly tell me which of you is Monsieur Nozdrev?” said the unknown
with a glance of perplexity both at the person named (who was still standing
with pipe-shank upraised) and at Chichikov (who was just beginning to
recover from his unpleasant predicament).
“Kindly tell ME whom I have the honour of addressing?” retorted
Nozdrev as he approached the official.
“I am the Superintendent of Rural Police.”
“And what do you want?”
“I have come to fulfil a commission imposed upon me. That is to say, I
have come to place you under arrest until your case shall have been
decided.”
“Rubbish! What case, pray?”
“The case in which you involved yourself when, in a drunken condition,
and through the instrumentality of a walking-stick, you offered grave
offence to the person of Landowner Maksimov.”

“You lie! To your face I tell you that never in my life have I set eyes upon
Landowner Maksimov.”
“Good sir, allow me to represent to you that I am a Government officer.
Speeches like that you may address to your servants, but not to me.”
At this point Chichikov, without waiting for Nozdrev’s reply, seized his
cap, slipped behind the Superintendent’s back, rushed out on to the
verandah, sprang into his britchka, and ordered Selifan to drive like the
wind.

CHAPTER V

Certainly Chichikov was a thorough coward, for, although the britchka
pursued its headlong course until Nozdrev’s establishment had disappeared
behind hillocks and hedgerows, our hero continued to glance nervously
behind him, as though every moment expecting to see a stern chase begin.
His breath came with difficulty, and when he tried his heart with his hands
he could feel it fluttering like a quail caught in a net.
“What a sweat the fellow has thrown me into!” he thought to himself,
while many a dire and forceful aspiration passed through his mind. Indeed,
the expressions to which he gave vent were most inelegant in their nature.
But what was to be done next? He was a Russian and thoroughly aroused.
The affair had been no joke. “But for the Superintendent,” he reflected, “I
might never again have looked upon God’s daylight—I might have
vanished like a bubble on a pool, and left neither trace nor posterity nor
property nor an honourable name for my future offspring to inherit!” (it
seemed that our hero was particularly anxious with regard to his possible
issue).
“What a scurvy barin!” mused Selifan as he drove along. “Never have I
seen such a barin. I should like to spit in his face. ’Tis better to allow a man
nothing to eat than to refuse to feed a horse properly. A horse needs his oats
—they are his proper fare. Even if you make a man procure a meal at his

own expense, don’t deny a horse his oats, for he ought always to have
them.”
An equally poor opinion of Nozdrev seemed to be cherished also by the
steeds, for not only were the bay and the Assessor clearly out of spirits, but
even the skewbald was wearing a dejected air. True, at home the skewbald
got none but the poorer sorts of oats to eat, and Selifan never filled his
trough without having first called him a villain; but at least they WERE
oats, and not hay—they were stuff which could be chewed with a certain
amount of relish. Also, there was the fact that at intervals he could intrude
his long nose into his companions’ troughs (especially when Selifan
happened to be absent from the stable) and ascertain what THEIR
provender was like. But at Nozdrev’s there had been nothing but hay! That
was not right. All three horses felt greatly discontented.
But presently the malcontents had their reflections cut short in a very
rude and unexpected manner. That is to say, they were brought back to
practicalities by coming into violent collision with a six-horsed vehicle,
while upon their heads descended both a babel of cries from the ladies
inside and a storm of curses and abuse from the coachman. “Ah, you
damned fool!” he vociferated. “I shouted to you loud enough! Draw out,
you old raven, and keep to the right! Are you drunk?” Selifan himself felt
conscious that he had been careless, but since a Russian does not care to
admit a fault in the presence of strangers, he retorted with dignity: “Why
have you run into US? Did you leave your eyes behind you at the last tavern
that you stopped at?” With that he started to back the britchka, in the hope
that it might get clear of the other’s harness; but this would not do, for the
pair were too hopelessly intertwined. Meanwhile the skewbald snuffed
curiously at his new acquaintances as they stood planted on either side of
him; while the ladies in the vehicle regarded the scene with an expression of
terror. One of them was an old woman, and the other a damsel of about
sixteen. A mass of golden hair fell daintily from a small head, and the oval
of her comely face was as shapely as an egg, and white with the transparent
whiteness seen when the hands of a housewife hold a new-laid egg to the
light to let the sun’s rays filter through its shell. The same tint marked the
maiden’s ears where they glowed in the sunshine, and, in short, what with
the tears in her wide-open, arresting eyes, she presented so attractive a
picture that our hero bestowed upon it more than a passing glance before he

turned his attention to the hubbub which was being raised among the horses
and the coachmen.
“Back out, you rook of Nizhni Novgorod!” the strangers’ coachman
shouted. Selifan tightened his reins, and the other driver did the same. The
horses stepped back a little, and then came together again—this time getting
a leg or two over the traces. In fact, so pleased did the skewbald seem with
his new friends that he refused to stir from the melee into which an
unforeseen chance had plunged him. Laying his muzzle lovingly upon the
neck of one of his recently-acquired acquaintances, he seemed to be
whispering something in that acquaintance’s ear—and whispering pretty
nonsense, too, to judge from the way in which that confidant kept shaking
his ears.
At length peasants from a village which happened to be near the scene of
the accident tackled the mess; and since a spectacle of that kind is to the
Russian muzhik what a newspaper or a club-meeting is to the German, the
vehicles soon became the centre of a crowd, and the village denuded even
of its old women and children. The traces were disentangled, and a few
slaps on the nose forced the skewbald to draw back a little; after which the
teams were straightened out and separated. Nevertheless, either sheer
obstinacy or vexation at being parted from their new friends caused the
strange team absolutely to refuse to move a leg. Their driver laid the whip
about them, but still they stood as though rooted to the spot. At length the
participatory efforts of the peasants rose to an unprecedented degree of
enthusiasm, and they shouted in an intermittent chorus the advice, “Do you,
Andrusha, take the head of the trace horse on the right, while Uncle Mitai
mounts the shaft horse. Get up, Uncle Mitai.” Upon that the lean, long, and
red-bearded Uncle Mitai mounted the shaft horse; in which position he
looked like a village steeple or the winder which is used to raise water from
wells. The coachman whipped up his steeds afresh, but nothing came of it,
and Uncle Mitai had proved useless. “Hold on, hold on!” shouted the
peasants again. “Do you, Uncle Mitai, mount the trace horse, while Uncle
Minai mounts the shaft horse.” Whereupon Uncle Minai—a peasant with a
pair of broad shoulders, a beard as black as charcoal, and a belly like the
huge samovar in which sbiten is brewed for all attending a local market—
hastened to seat himself upon the shaft horse, which almost sank to the
ground beneath his weight. “NOW they will go all right!” the muzhiks
exclaimed. “Lay it on hot, lay it on hot! Give that sorrel horse the whip, and

make him squirm like a koramora 22.” Nevertheless, the affair in no way
progressed; wherefore, seeing that flogging was of no use, Uncles Mitai and
Minai BOTH mounted the sorrel, while Andrusha seated himself upon the
trace horse. Then the coachman himself lost patience, and sent the two
Uncles about their business—and not before it was time, seeing that the
horses were steaming in a way that made it clear that, unless they were first
winded, they would never reach the next posthouse. So they were given a
moment’s rest. That done, they moved off of their own accord!
Throughout, Chichikov had been gazing at the young unknown with
great attention, and had even made one or two attempts to enter into
conversation with her: but without success. Indeed, when the ladies
departed, it was as in a dream that he saw the girl’s comely presence, the
delicate features of her face, and the slender outline of her form vanish from
his sight; it was as in a dream that once more he saw only the road, the
britchka, the three horses, Selifan, and the bare, empty fields. Everywhere
in life—yes, even in the plainest, the dingiest ranks of society, as much as in
those which are uniformly bright and presentable—a man may happen upon
some phenomenon which is so entirely different from those which have
hitherto fallen to his lot. Everywhere through the web of sorrow of which
our lives are woven there may suddenly break a clear, radiant thread of joy;
even as suddenly along the street of some poor, poverty-stricken village
which, ordinarily, sees nought but a farm waggon there may came bowling
a gorgeous coach with plated harness, picturesque horses, and a glitter of
glass, so that the peasants stand gaping, and do not resume their caps until
long after the strange equipage has become lost to sight. Thus the golden-
haired maiden makes a sudden, unexpected appearance in our story, and as
suddenly, as unexpectedly, disappears. Indeed, had it not been that the
person concerned was Chichikov, and not some youth of twenty summers—
a hussar or a student or, in general, a man standing on the threshold of life
—what thoughts would not have sprung to birth, and stirred and spoken,
within him; for what a length of time would he not have stood entranced as
he stared into the distance and forgot alike his journey, the business still to
be done, the possibility of incurring loss through lingering—himself, his
vocation, the world, and everything else that the world contains!
But in the present case the hero was a man of middle-age, and of cautious
and frigid temperament. True, he pondered over the incident, but in more
deliberate fashion than a younger man would have done. That is to say, his

reflections were not so irresponsible and unsteady. “She was a comely
damsel,” he said to himself as he opened his snuff-box and took a pinch.
“But the important point is: Is she also a NICE DAMSEL? One thing she
has in her favour—and that is that she appears only just to have left school,
and not to have had time to become womanly in the worser sense. At
present, therefore, she is like a child. Everything in her is simple, and she
says just what she thinks, and laughs merely when she feels inclined. Such a
damsel might be made into anything—or she might be turned into worthless
rubbish. The latter, I surmise, for trudging after her she will have a fond
mother and a bevy of aunts, and so forth—persons who, within a year, will
have filled her with womanishness to the point where her own father
wouldn’t know her. And to that there will be added pride and affectation,
and she will begin to observe established rules, and to rack her brains as to
how, and how much, she ought to talk, and to whom, and where, and so
forth. Every moment will see her growing timorous and confused lest she
be saying too much. Finally, she will develop into a confirmed prevaricator,
and end by marrying the devil knows whom!” Chichikov paused awhile.
Then he went on: “Yet I should like to know who she is, and who her father
is, and whether he is a rich landowner of good standing, or merely a
respectable man who has acquired a fortune in the service of the
Government. Should he allow her, on marriage, a dowry of, say, two
hundred thousand roubles, she will be a very nice catch indeed. She might
even, so to speak, make a man of good breeding happy.”
Indeed, so attractively did the idea of the two hundred thousand roubles
begin to dance before his imagination that he felt a twinge of self-reproach
because, during the hubbub, he had not inquired of the postillion or the
coachman who the travellers might be. But soon the sight of Sobakevitch’s
country house dissipated his thoughts, and forced him to return to his stock
subject of reflection.
Sobakevitch’s country house and estate were of very fair size, and on
each side of the mansion were expanses of birch and pine forest in two
shades of green. The wooden edifice itself had dark-grey walls and a red-
gabled roof, for it was a mansion of the kind which Russia builds for her
military settlers and for German colonists. A noticeable circumstance was
the fact that the taste of the architect had differed from that of the proprietor
—the former having manifestly been a pedant and desirous of symmetry,
and the latter having wished only for comfort. Consequently he (the

proprietor) had dispensed with all windows on one side of the mansion, and
had caused to be inserted, in their place, only a small aperture which,
doubtless, was intended to light an otherwise dark lumber-room. Likewise,
the architect’s best efforts had failed to cause the pediment to stand in the
centre of the building, since the proprietor had had one of its four original
columns removed. Evidently durability had been considered throughout, for
the courtyard was enclosed by a strong and very high wooden fence, and
both the stables, the coach-house, and the culinary premises were partially
constructed of beams warranted to last for centuries. Nay, even the wooden
huts of the peasantry were wonderful in the solidity of their construction,
and not a clay wall or a carved pattern or other device was to be seen.
Everything fitted exactly into its right place, and even the draw-well of the
mansion was fashioned of the oakwood usually thought suitable only for
mills or ships. In short, wherever Chichikov’s eye turned he saw nothing
that was not free from shoddy make and well and skilfully arranged. As he
approached the entrance steps he caught sight of two faces peering from a
window. One of them was that of a woman in a mobcap with features as
long and as narrow as a cucumber, and the other that of a man with features
as broad and as short as the Moldavian pumpkins (known as gorlianki)
whereof balallaiki—the species of light, two-stringed instrument which
constitutes the pride and the joy of the gay young fellow of twenty as he sits
winking and smiling at the white-necked, white-bosomed maidens who
have gathered to listen to his low-pitched tinkling—are fashioned. This
scrutiny made, both faces withdrew, and there came out on to the entrance
steps a lacquey clad in a grey jacket and a stiff blue collar. This functionary
conducted Chichikov into the hall, where he was met by the master of the
house himself, who requested his guest to enter, and then led him into the
inner part of the mansion.
A covert glance at Sobakevitch showed our hero that his host exactly
resembled a moderate-sized bear. To complete the resemblance,
Sobakevitch’s long frockcoat and baggy trousers were of the precise colour
of a bear’s hide, while, when shuffling across the floor, he made a criss-
cross motion of the legs, and had, in addition, a constant habit of treading
upon his companion’s toes. As for his face, it was of the warm, ardent tint
of a piatok 23. Persons of this kind—persons to whose designing nature has
devoted not much thought, and in the fashioning of whose frames she has
used no instruments so delicate as a file or a gimlet and so forth—are not

uncommon. Such persons she merely roughhews. One cut with a hatchet,
and there results a nose; another such cut with a hatchet, and there
materialises a pair of lips; two thrusts with a drill, and there issues a pair of
eyes. Lastly, scorning to plane down the roughness, she sends out that
person into the world, saying: “There is another live creature.” Sobakevitch
was just such a ragged, curiously put together figure—though the above
model would seem to have been followed more in his upper portion than in
his lower. One result was that he seldom turned his head to look at the
person with whom he was speaking, but, rather, directed his eyes towards,
say, the stove corner or the doorway. As host and guest crossed the dining-
room Chichikov directed a second glance at his companion. “He is a bear,
and nothing but a bear,” he thought to himself. And, indeed, the strange
comparison was inevitable. Incidentally, Sobakevitch’s Christian name and
patronymic were Michael Semenovitch. Of his habit of treading upon other
people’s toes Chichikov had become fully aware; wherefore he stepped
cautiously, and, throughout, allowed his host to take the lead. As a matter of
fact, Sobakevitch himself seemed conscious of his failing, for at intervals he
would inquire: “I hope I have not hurt you?” and Chichikov, with a word of
thanks, would reply that as yet he had sustained no injury.
At length they reached the drawing-room, where Sobakevitch pointed to
an armchair, and invited his guest to be seated. Chichikov gazed with
interest at the walls and the pictures. In every such picture there were
portrayed either young men or Greek generals of the type of Movrogordato
(clad in a red uniform and breaches), Kanaris, and others; and all these
heroes were depicted with a solidity of thigh and a wealth of moustache
which made the beholder simply shudder with awe. Among them there were
placed also, according to some unknown system, and for some unknown
reason, firstly, Bagration 24—tall and thin, and with a cluster of small flags
and cannon beneath him, and the whole set in the narrowest of frames—
and, secondly, the Greek heroine, Bobelina, whose legs looked larger than
do the whole bodies of the drawing-room dandies of the present day.
Apparently the master of the house was himself a man of health and
strength, and therefore liked to have his apartments adorned with none but
folk of equal vigour and robustness. Lastly, in the window, and suspended
cheek by jowl with Bobelina, there hung a cage whence at intervals there
peered forth a white-spotted blackbird. Like everything else in the
apartment, it bore a strong resemblance to Sobakevitch. When host and

guest had been conversing for two minutes or so the door opened, and there
entered the hostess—a tall lady in a cap adorned with ribands of domestic
colouring and manufacture. She entered deliberately, and held her head as
erect as a palm.
“This is my wife, Theodulia Ivanovna,” said Sobakevitch.
Chichikov approached and took her hand. The fact that she raised it
nearly to the level of his lips apprised him of the circumstance that it had
just been rinsed in cucumber oil.
“My dear, allow me to introduce Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov,” added
Sobakevitch. “He has the honour of being acquainted both with our
Governor and with our Postmaster.”
Upon this Theodulia Ivanovna requested her guest to be seated, and
accompanied the invitation with the kind of bow usually employed only by
actresses who are playing the role of queens. Next, she took a seat upon the
sofa, drew around her her merino gown, and sat thereafter without moving
an eyelid or an eyebrow. As for Chichikov, he glanced upwards, and once
more caught sight of Kanaris with his fat thighs and interminable
moustache, and of Bobelina and the blackbird. For fully five minutes all
present preserved a complete silence—the only sound audible being that of
the blackbird’s beak against the wooden floor of the cage as the creature
fished for grains of corn. Meanwhile Chichikov again surveyed the room,
and saw that everything in it was massive and clumsy in the highest degree;
as also that everything was curiously in keeping with the master of the
house. For example, in one corner of the apartment there stood a hazelwood
bureau with a bulging body on four grotesque legs—the perfect image of a
bear. Also, the tables and the chairs were of the same ponderous, unrestful
order, and every single article in the room appeared to be saying either, “I,
too, am a Sobakevitch,” or “I am exactly like Sobakevitch.”
“I heard speak of you one day when I was visiting the President of the
Council,” said Chichikov, on perceiving that no one else had a mind to
begin a conversation. “That was on Thursday last. We had a very pleasant
evening.”
“Yes, on that occasion I was not there,” replied Sobakevitch.
“What a nice man he is!”
“Who is?” inquired Sobakevitch, gazing into the corner by the stove.

“The President of the Local Council.”
“Did he seem so to you? True, he is a mason, but he is also the greatest
fool that the world ever saw.”
Chichikov started a little at this mordant criticism, but soon pulled
himself together again, and continued:
“Of course, every man has his weakness. Yet the President seems to be an
excellent fellow.”
“And do you think the same of the Governor?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Because there exists no greater rogue than he.”
“What? The Governor a rogue?” ejaculated Chichikov, at a loss to
understand how the official in question could come to be numbered with
thieves. “Let me say that I should never have guessed it. Permit me also to
remark that his conduct would hardly seem to bear out your opinion—he
seems so gentle a man.” And in proof of this Chichikov cited the purses
which the Governor knitted, and also expatiated on the mildness of his
features.
“He has the face of a robber,” said Sobakevitch. “Were you to give him a
knife, and to turn him loose on a turnpike, he would cut your throat for two
kopecks. And the same with the Vice-Governor. The pair are just Gog and
Magog.”
“Evidently he is not on good terms with them,” thought Chichikov to
himself. “I had better pass to the Chief of Police, which whom he DOES
seem to be friendly.” Accordingly he added aloud: “For my own part, I
should give the preference to the Head of the Gendarmery. What a frank,
outspoken nature he has! And what an element of simplicity does his
expression contain!”
“He is mean to the core,” remarked Sobakevitch coldly. “He will sell you
and cheat you, and then dine at your table. Yes, I know them all, and every
one of them is a swindler, and the town a nest of rascals engaged in robbing
one another. Not a man of the lot is there but would sell Christ. Yet stay:
ONE decent fellow there is—the Public Prosecutor; though even HE, if the
truth be told, is little better than a pig.”
After these eulogia Chichikov saw that it would be useless to continue
running through the list of officials—more especially since suddenly he had

remembered that Sobakevitch was not at any time given to commending his
fellow man.
“Let us go to luncheon, my dear,” put in Theodulia Ivanovna to her
spouse.
“Yes; pray come to table,” said Sobakevitch to his guest; whereupon they
consumed the customary glass of vodka (accompanied by sundry snacks of
salted cucumber and other dainties) with which Russians, both in town and
country, preface a meal. Then they filed into the dining-room in the wake of
the hostess, who sailed on ahead like a goose swimming across a pond. The
small dining-table was found to be laid for four persons—the fourth place
being occupied by a lady or a young girl (it would have been difficult to say
which exactly) who might have been either a relative, the housekeeper, or a
casual visitor. Certain persons in the world exist, not as personalities in
themselves, but as spots or specks on the personalities of others. Always
they are to be seen sitting in the same place, and holding their heads at
exactly the same angle, so that one comes within an ace of mistaking them
for furniture, and thinks to oneself that never since the day of their birth can
they have spoken a single word.
“My dear,” said Sobakevitch, “the cabbage soup is excellent.” With that
he finished his portion, and helped himself to a generous measure of niania
25—the dish which follows shtchi and consists of a sheep’s stomach stuffed
with black porridge, brains, and other things. “What niania this is!” he
added to Chichikov. “Never would you get such stuff in a town, where one
is given the devil knows what.”
“Nevertheless the Governor keeps a fair table,” said Chichikov.
“Yes, but do you know what all the stuff is MADE OF?” retorted
Sobakevitch. “If you DID know you would never touch it.”
“Of course I am not in a position to say how it is prepared, but at least the
pork cutlets and the boiled fish seemed excellent.”
“Ah, it might have been thought so; yet I know the way in which such
things are bought in the market-place. They are bought by some rascal of a
cook whom a Frenchman has taught how to skin a tomcat and then serve it
up as hare.”
“Ugh! What horrible things you say!” put in Madame.

“Well, my dear, that is how things are done, and it is no fault of mine that
it is so. Moreover, everything that is left over—everything that WE (pardon
me for mentioning it) cast into the slop-pail—is used by such folk for
making soup.”
“Always at table you begin talking like this!” objected his helpmeet.
“And why not?” said Sobakevitch. “I tell you straight that I would not eat
such nastiness, even had I made it myself. Sugar a frog as much as you like,
but never shall it pass MY lips. Nor would I swallow an oyster, for I know
only too well what an oyster may resemble. But have some mutton, friend
Chichikov. It is shoulder of mutton, and very different stuff from the mutton
which they cook in noble kitchens—mutton which has been kicking about
the market-place four days or more. All that sort of cookery has been
invented by French and German doctors, and I should like to hang them for
having done so. They go and prescribe diets and a hunger cure as though
what suits their flaccid German systems will agree with a Russian stomach!
Such devices are no good at all.” Sobakevitch shook his head wrathfully.
“Fellows like those are for ever talking of civilisation. As if THAT sort of
thing was civilisation! Phew!” (Perhaps the speaker’s concluding
exclamation would have been even stronger had he not been seated at
table.) “For myself, I will have none of it. When I eat pork at a meal, give
me the WHOLE pig; when mutton, the WHOLE sheep; when goose, the
WHOLE of the bird. Two dishes are better than a thousand, provided that
one can eat of them as much as one wants.”
And he proceeded to put precept into practice by taking half the shoulder
of mutton on to his plate, and then devouring it down to the last morsel of
gristle and bone.
“My word!” reflected Chichikov. “The fellow has a pretty good holding
capacity!”
“None of it for me,” repeated Sobakevitch as he wiped his hands on his
napkin. “I don’t intend to be like a fellow named Plushkin, who owns eight
hundred souls, yet dines worse than does my shepherd.”
“Who is Plushkin?” asked Chichikov.
“A miser,” replied Sobakevitch. “Such a miser as never you could
imagine. Even convicts in prison live better than he does. And he starves his
servants as well.”

“Really?” ejaculated Chichikov, greatly interested. “Should you, then,
say that he has lost many peasants by death?”
“Certainly. They keep dying like flies.”
“Then how far from here does he reside?”
“About five versts.”
“Only five versts?” exclaimed Chichikov, feeling his heart beating
joyously. “Ought one, when leaving your gates, to turn to the right or to the
left?”
“I should be sorry to tell you the way to the house of such a cur,” said
Sobakevitch. “A man had far better go to hell than to Plushkin’s.”
“Quite so,” responded Chichikov. “My only reason for asking you is that
it interests me to become acquainted with any and every sort of locality.”
To the shoulder of mutton there succeeded, in turn, cutlets (each one
larger than a plate), a turkey of about the size of a calf, eggs, rice, pastry,
and every conceivable thing which could possibly be put into a stomach.
There the meal ended. When he rose from table Chichikov felt as though a
pood’s weight were inside him. In the drawing-room the company found
dessert awaiting them in the shape of pears, plums, and apples; but since
neither host nor guest could tackle these particular dainties the hostess
removed them to another room. Taking advantage of her absence,
Chichikov turned to Sobakevitch (who, prone in an armchair, seemed, after
his ponderous meal, to be capable of doing little beyond belching and
grunting—each such grunt or belch necessitating a subsequent signing of
the cross over the mouth), and intimated to him a desire to have a little
private conversation concerning a certain matter. At this moment the hostess
returned.
“Here is more dessert,” she said. “Pray have a few radishes stewed in
honey.”
“Later, later,” replied Sobakevitch. “Do you go to your room, and Paul
Ivanovitch and I will take off our coats and have a nap.”
Upon this the good lady expressed her readiness to send for feather beds
and cushions, but her husband expressed a preference for slumbering in an
armchair, and she therefore departed. When she had gone Sobakevitch
inclined his head in an attitude of willingness to listen to Chichikov’s
business. Our hero began in a sort of detached manner—touching lightly

upon the subject of the Russian Empire, and expatiating upon the
immensity of the same, and saying that even the Empire of Ancient Rome
had been of considerably smaller dimensions. Meanwhile Sobakevitch sat
with his head drooping.
From that Chichikov went on to remark that, according to the statutes of
the said Russian Empire (which yielded to none in glory—so much so that
foreigners marvelled at it), peasants on the census lists who had ended their
earthly careers were nevertheless, on the rendering of new lists, returned
equally with the living, to the end that the courts might be relieved of a
multitude of trifling, useless emendations which might complicate the
already sufficiently complex mechanism of the State. Nevertheless, said
Chichikov, the general equity of this measure did not obviate a certain
amount of annoyance to landowners, since it forced them to pay upon a
non-living article the tax due upon a living. Hence (our hero concluded) he
(Chichikov) was prepared, owing to the personal respect which he felt for
Sobakevitch, to relieve him, in part, of the irksome obligation referred to (in
passing, it may be said that Chichikov referred to his principal point only
guardedly, for he called the souls which he was seeking not “dead,” but
“non-existent”).
Meanwhile Sobakevitch listened with bent head; though something like a
trace of expression dawned in his face as he did so. Ordinarily his body
lacked a soul—or, if he did possess a soul, he seemed to keep it elsewhere
than where it ought to have been; so that, buried beneath mountains (as it
were) or enclosed within a massive shell, its movements produced no sort
of agitation on the surface.
“Well?” said Chichikov—though not without a certain tremor of
diffidence as to the possible response.
“You are after dead souls?” were Sobakevitch’s perfectly simple words.
He spoke without the least surprise in his tone, and much as though the
conversation had been turning on grain.
“Yes,” replied Chichikov, and then, as before, softened down the
expression “dead souls.”
“They are to be found,” said Sobakevitch. “Why should they not be?”
“Then of course you will be glad to get rid of any that you may chance to
have?”

“Yes, I shall have no objection to SELLING them.” At this point the
speaker raised his head a little, for it had struck him that surely the would-
be buyer must have some advantage in view.
“The devil!” thought Chichikov to himself. “Here is he selling the goods
before I have even had time to utter a word!”
“And what about the price?” he added aloud. “Of course, the articles are
not of a kind very easy to appraise.”
“I should be sorry to ask too much,” said Sobakevitch. “How would a
hundred roubles per head suit you?”
“What, a hundred roubles per head?” Chichikov stared open-mouthed at
his host—doubting whether he had heard aright, or whether his host’s slow-
moving tongue might not have inadvertently substituted one word for
another.
“Yes. Is that too much for you?” said Sobakevitch. Then he added: “What
is your own price?”
“My own price? I think that we cannot properly have understood one
another—that you must have forgotten of what the goods consist. With my
hand on my heart do I submit that eight grivni per soul would be a
handsome, a VERY handsome, offer.”
“What? Eight grivni?”
“In my opinion, a higher offer would be impossible.”
“But I am not a seller of boots.”
“No; yet you, for your part, will agree that these souls are not live human
beings?”
“I suppose you hope to find fools ready to sell you souls on the census
list for a couple of groats apiece?”
“Pardon me, but why do you use the term ‘on the census list’? The souls
themselves have long since passed away, and have left behind them only
their names. Not to trouble you with any further discussion of the subject, I
can offer you a rouble and a half per head, but no more.”
“You should be ashamed even to mention such a sum! Since you deal in
articles of this kind, quote me a genuine price.”
“I cannot, Michael Semenovitch. Believe me, I cannot. What a man
cannot do, that he cannot do.” The speaker ended by advancing another

half-rouble per head.
“But why hang back with your money?” said Sobakevitch. “Of a truth I
am not asking much of you. Any other rascal than myself would have
cheated you by selling you old rubbish instead of good, genuine souls,
whereas I should be ready to give you of my best, even were you buying
only nut-kernels. For instance, look at wheelwright Michiev. Never was
there such a one to build spring carts! And his handiwork was not like your
Moscow handiwork—good only for an hour. No, he did it all himself, even
down to the varnishing.”
Chichikov opened his mouth to remark that, nevertheless, the said
Michiev had long since departed this world; but Sobakevitch’s eloquence
had got too thoroughly into its stride to admit of any interruption.
“And look, too, at Probka Stepan, the carpenter,” his host went on. “I will
wager my head that nowhere else would you find such a workman. What a
strong fellow he was! He had served in the Guards, and the Lord only
knows what they had given for him, seeing that he was over three arshins in
height.”
Again Chichikov tried to remark that Probka was dead, but Sobakevitch’s
tongue was borne on the torrent of its own verbiage, and the only thing to
be done was to listen.
“And Milushkin, the bricklayer! He could build a stove in any house you
liked! And Maksim Teliatnikov, the bootmaker! Anything that he drove his
awl into became a pair of boots—and boots for which you would be
thankful, although he WAS a bit foul of the mouth. And Eremi
Sorokoplechin, too! He was the best of the lot, and used to work at his trade
in Moscow, where he paid a tax of five hundred roubles. Well, THERE’S an
assortment of serfs for you!—a very different assortment from what
Plushkin would sell you!”
“But permit me,” at length put in Chichikov, astounded at this flood of
eloquence to which there appeared to be no end. “Permit me, I say, to
inquire why you enumerate the talents of the deceased, seeing that they are
all of them dead, and that therefore there can be no sense in doing so. ‘A
dead body is only good to prop a fence with,’ says the proverb.”
“Of course they are dead,” replied Sobakevitch, but rather as though the
idea had only just occurred to him, and was giving him food for thought.

“But tell me, now: what is the use of listing them as still alive? And what is
the use of them themselves? They are flies, not human beings.”
“Well,” said Chichikov, “they exist, though only in idea.”
“But no—NOT only in idea. I tell you that nowhere else would you find
such a fellow for working heavy tools as was Michiev. He had the strength
of a horse in his shoulders.” And, with the words, Sobakevitch turned, as
though for corroboration, to the portrait of Bagration, as is frequently done
by one of the parties in a dispute when he purports to appeal to an
extraneous individual who is not only unknown to him, but wholly
unconnected with the subject in hand; with the result that the individual is
left in doubt whether to make a reply, or whether to betake himself
elsewhere.
“Nevertheless, I CANNOT give you more than two roubles per head,”
said Chichikov.
“Well, as I don’t want you to swear that I have asked too much of you
and won’t meet you halfway, suppose, for friendship’s sake, that you pay
me seventy-five roubles in assignats?”
“Good heavens!” thought Chichikov to himself. “Does the man take me
for a fool?” Then he added aloud: “The situation seems to me a strange one,
for it is as though we were performing a stage comedy. No other
explanation would meet the case. Yet you appear to be a man of sense, and
possessed of some education. The matter is a very simple one. The question
is: what is a dead soul worth, and is it of any use to any one?”
“It is of use to YOU, or you would not be buying such articles.”
Chichikov bit his lip, and stood at a loss for a retort. He tried to saying
something about “family and domestic circumstances,” but Sobakevitch cut
him short with:
“I don’t want to know your private affairs, for I never poke my nose into
such things. You need the souls, and I am ready to sell them. Should you not
buy them, I think you will repent it.”
“Two roubles is my price,” repeated Chichikov.
“Come, come! As you have named that sum, I can understand your not
liking to go back upon it; but quote me a bona fide figure.”
“The devil fly away with him!” mused Chichikov. “However, I will add
another half-rouble.” And he did so.

“Indeed?” said Sobakevitch. “Well, my last word upon it is—fifty roubles
in assignats. That will mean a sheer loss to me, for nowhere else in the
world could you buy better souls than mine.”
“The old skinflint!” muttered Chichikov. Then he added aloud, with
irritation in his tone: “See here. This is a serious matter. Any one but you
would be thankful to get rid of the souls. Only a fool would stick to them,
and continue to pay the tax.”
“Yes, but remember (and I say it wholly in a friendly way) that
transactions of this kind are not generally allowed, and that any one would
say that a man who engages in them must have some rather doubtful
advantage in view.”
“Have it your own away,” said Chichikov, with assumed indifference.
“As a matter of fact, I am not purchasing for profit, as you suppose, but to
humour a certain whim of mine. Two and a half roubles is the most that I
can offer.”
“Bless your heart!” retorted the host. “At least give me thirty roubles in
assignats, and take the lot.”
“No, for I see that you are unwilling to sell. I must say good-day to you.”
“Hold on, hold on!” exclaimed Sobakevitch, retaining his guest’s hand,
and at the same moment treading heavily upon his toes—so heavily, indeed,
that Chichikov gasped and danced with the pain.
“I BEG your pardon!” said Sobakevitch hastily. “Evidently I have hurt
you. Pray sit down again.”
“No,” retorted Chichikov. “I am merely wasting my time, and must be
off.”
“Oh, sit down just for a moment. I have something more agreeable to
say.” And, drawing closer to his guest, Sobakevitch whispered in his ear, as
though communicating to him a secret: “How about twenty-five roubles?”
“No, no, no!” exclaimed Chichikov. “I won’t give you even a QUARTER
of that. I won’t advance another kopeck.”
For a while Sobakevitch remained silent, and Chichikov did the same.
This lasted for a couple of minutes, and, meanwhile, the aquiline-nosed
Bagration gazed from the wall as though much interested in the bargaining.
“What is your outside price?” at length said Sobakevitch.

“Two and a half roubles.”
“Then you seem to rate a human soul at about the same value as a boiled
turnip. At least give me THREE roubles.”
“No, I cannot.”
“Pardon me, but you are an impossible man to deal with. However, even
though it will mean a dead loss to me, and you have not shown a very nice
spirit about it, I cannot well refuse to please a friend. I suppose a purchase
deed had better be made out in order to have everything in order?”
“Of course.”
“Then for that purpose let us repair to the town.”
The affair ended in their deciding to do this on the morrow, and to
arrange for the signing of a deed of purchase. Next, Chichikov requested a
list of the peasants; to which Sobakevitch readily agreed. Indeed, he went to
his writing-desk then and there, and started to indite a list which gave not
only the peasants’ names, but also their late qualifications.
Meanwhile Chichikov, having nothing else to do, stood looking at the
spacious form of his host; and as he gazed at his back as broad as that of a
cart horse, and at the legs as massive as the iron standards which adorn a
street, he could not help inwardly ejaculating:
“Truly God has endowed you with much! Though not adjusted with
nicety, at least you are strongly built. I wonder whether you were born a
bear or whether you have come to it through your rustic life, with its tilling
of crops and its trading with peasants? Yet no; I believe that, even if you
had received a fashionable education, and had mixed with society, and had
lived in St. Petersburg, you would still have been just the kulak 26 that you
are. The only difference is that circumstances, as they stand, permit of your
polishing off a stuffed shoulder of mutton at a meal; whereas in St.
Petersburg you would have been unable to do so. Also, as circumstances
stand, you have under you a number of peasants, whom you treat well for
the reason that they are your property; whereas, otherwise, you would have
had under you tchinovniks 27: whom you would have bullied because they
were NOT your property. Also, you would have robbed the Treasury, since
a kulak always remains a money-grubber.”
“The list is ready,” said Sobakevitch, turning round.

“Indeed? Then please let me look at it.” Chichikov ran his eye over the
document, and could not but marvel at its neatness and accuracy. Not only
were there set forth in it the trade, the age, and the pedigree of every serf,
but on the margin of the sheet were jotted remarks concerning each serf’s
conduct and sobriety. Truly it was a pleasure to look at it.
“And do you mind handing me the earnest money?” said Sobakevitch.
“Yes, I do. Why need that be done? You can receive the money in a lump
sum as soon as we visit the town.”
“But it is always the custom, you know,” asserted Sobakevitch.
“Then I cannot follow it, for I have no money with me. However, here
are ten roubles.”
“Ten roubles, indeed? You might as well hand me fifty while you are
about it.”
Once more Chichikov started to deny that he had any money upon him,
but Sobakevitch insisted so strongly that this was not so that at length the
guest pulled out another fifteen roubles, and added them to the ten already
produced.
“Kindly give me a receipt for the money,” he added.
“A receipt? Why should I give you a receipt?”
“Because it is better to do so, in order to guard against mistakes.”
“Very well; but first hand me over the money.”
“The money? I have it here. Do you write out the receipt, and then the
money shall be yours.”
“Pardon me, but how am I to write out the receipt before I have seen the
cash?”
Chichikov placed the notes in Sobakevitch’s hand; whereupon the host
moved nearer to the table, and added to the list of serfs a note that he had
received for the peasants, therewith sold, the sum of twenty-five roubles, as
earnest money. This done, he counted the notes once more.
“This is a very OLD note,” he remarked, holding one up to the light.
“Also, it is a trifle torn. However, in a friendly transaction one must not be
too particular.”
“What a kulak!” thought Chichikov to himself. “And what a brute beast!”
“Then you do not want any WOMEN souls?” queried Sobakevitch.

“I thank you, no.”
“I could let you have some cheap—say, as between friends, at a rouble a
head?”
“No, I should have no use for them.”
“Then, that being so, there is no more to be said. There is no accounting
for tastes. ‘One man loves the priest, and another the priest’s wife,’ says the
proverb.”
Chichikov rose to take his leave. “Once more I would request of you,” he
said, “that the bargain be left as it is.”
“Of course, of course. What is done between friends holds good because
of their mutual friendship. Good-bye, and thank you for your visit. In
advance I would beg that, whenever you should have an hour or two to
spare, you will come and lunch with us again. Perhaps we might be able to
do one another further service?”
“Not if I know it!” reflected Chichikov as he mounted his britchka. “Not
I, seeing that I have had two and a half roubles per soul squeezed out of me
by a brute of a kulak!”
Altogether he felt dissatisfied with Sobakevitch’s behaviour. In spite of
the man being a friend of the Governor and the Chief of Police, he had
acted like an outsider in taking money for what was worthless rubbish. As
the britchka left the courtyard Chichikov glanced back and saw Sobakevitch
still standing on the verandah—apparently for the purpose of watching to
see which way the guest’s carriage would turn.
“The old villain, to be still standing there!” muttered Chichikov through
his teeth; after which he ordered Selifan to proceed so that the vehicle’s
progress should be invisible from the mansion—the truth being that he had
a mind next to visit Plushkin (whose serfs, to quote Sobakevitch, had a
habit of dying like flies), but not to let his late host learn of his intention.
Accordingly, on reaching the further end of the village, he hailed the first
peasant whom he saw—a man who was in the act of hoisting a ponderous
beam on to his shoulder before setting off with it, ant-like, to his hut.
“Hi!” shouted Chichikov. “How can I reach landowner Plushkin’s place
without first going past the mansion here?”
The peasant seemed nonplussed by the question.
“Don’t you know?” queried Chichikov.

“No, barin,” replied the peasant.
“What? You don’t know skinflint Plushkin who feeds his people so
badly?”
“Of course I do!” exclaimed the fellow, and added thereto an
uncomplimentary expression of a species not ordinarily employed in polite
society. We may guess that it was a pretty apt expression, since long after
the man had become lost to view Chichikov was still laughing in his
britchka. And, indeed, the language of the Russian populace is always
forcible in its phraseology.

CHAPTER VI

Chichikov’s amusement at the peasant’s outburst prevented him from
noticing that he had reached the centre of a large and populous village; but,
presently, a violent jolt aroused him to the fact that he was driving over
wooden pavements of a kind compared with which the cobblestones of the
town had been as nothing. Like the keys of a piano, the planks kept rising
and falling, and unguarded passage over them entailed either a bump on the
back of the neck or a bruise on the forehead or a bite on the tip of one’s
tongue. At the same time Chichikov noticed a look of decay about the
buildings of the village. The beams of the huts had grown dark with age,
many of their roofs were riddled with holes, others had but a tile of the roof
remaining, and yet others were reduced to the rib-like framework of the
same. It would seem as though the inhabitants themselves had removed the
laths and traverses, on the very natural plea that the huts were no protection
against the rain, and therefore, since the latter entered in bucketfuls, there
was no particular object to be gained by sitting in such huts when all the
time there was the tavern and the highroad and other places to resort to.
Suddenly a woman appeared from an outbuilding—apparently the
housekeeper of the mansion, but so roughly and dirtily dressed as almost to
seem indistinguishable from a man. Chichikov inquired for the master of
the place.

“He is not at home,” she replied, almost before her interlocutor had had
time to finish. Then she added: “What do you want with him?”
“I have some business to do,” said Chichikov.
“Then pray walk into the house,” the woman advised. Then she turned
upon him a back that was smeared with flour and had a long slit in the
lower portion of its covering. Entering a large, dark hall which reeked like a
tomb, he passed into an equally dark parlour that was lighted only by such
rays as contrived to filter through a crack under the door. When Chichikov
opened the door in question, the spectacle of the untidiness within struck
him almost with amazement. It would seem that the floor was never
washed, and that the room was used as a receptacle for every conceivable
kind of furniture. On a table stood a ragged chair, with, beside it, a clock
minus a pendulum and covered all over with cobwebs. Against a wall leant
a cupboard, full of old silver, glassware, and china. On a writing table,
inlaid with mother-of-pearl which, in places, had broken away and left
behind it a number of yellow grooves (stuffed with putty), lay a pile of
finely written manuscript, an overturned marble press (turning green), an
ancient book in a leather cover with red edges, a lemon dried and shrunken
to the dimensions of a hazelnut, the broken arm of a chair, a tumbler
containing the dregs of some liquid and three flies (the whole covered over
with a sheet of notepaper), a pile of rags, two ink-encrusted pens, and a
yellow toothpick with which the master of the house had picked his teeth
(apparently) at least before the coming of the French to Moscow. As for the
walls, they were hung with a medley of pictures. Among the latter was a
long engraving of a battle scene, wherein soldiers in three-cornered hats
were brandishing huge drums and slender lances. It lacked a glass, and was
set in a frame ornamented with bronze fretwork and bronze corner rings.
Beside it hung a huge, grimy oil painting representative of some flowers
and fruit, half a water melon, a boar’s head, and the pendent form of a dead
wild duck. Attached to the ceiling there was a chandelier in a holland
covering—the covering so dusty as closely to resemble a huge cocoon
enclosing a caterpillar. Lastly, in one corner of the room lay a pile of articles
which had evidently been adjudged unworthy of a place on the table. Yet
what the pile consisted of it would have been difficult to say, seeing that the
dust on the same was so thick that any hand which touched it would have at
once resembled a glove. Prominently protruding from the pile was the shaft
of a wooden spade and the antiquated sole of a shoe. Never would one have

supposed that a living creature had tenanted the room, were it not that the
presence of such a creature was betrayed by the spectacle of an old nightcap
resting on the table.
Whilst Chichikov was gazing at this extraordinary mess, a side door
opened and there entered the housekeeper who had met him near the
outbuildings. But now Chichikov perceived this person to be a man rather
than a woman, since a female housekeeper would have had no beard to
shave, whereas the chin of the newcomer, with the lower portion of his
cheeks, strongly resembled the curry-comb which is used for grooming
horses. Chichikov assumed a questioning air, and waited to hear what the
housekeeper might have to say. The housekeeper did the same. At length,
surprised at the misunderstanding, Chichikov decided to ask the first
question.
“Is the master at home?” he inquired.
“Yes,” replied the person addressed.
“Then where is he?” continued Chichikov.
“Are you blind, my good sir?” retorted the other. “I am the master.”
Involuntarily our hero started and stared. During his travels it had
befallen him to meet various types of men—some of them, it may be, types
which you and I have never encountered; but even to Chichikov this
particular species was new. In the old man’s face there was nothing very
special—it was much like the wizened face of many another dotard, save
that the chin was so greatly projected that whenever he spoke he was forced
to wipe it with a handkerchief to avoid dribbling, and that his small eyes
were not yet grown dull, but twinkled under their overhanging brows like
the eyes of mice when, with attentive ears and sensitive whiskers, they snuff
the air and peer forth from their holes to see whether a cat or a boy may not
be in the vicinity. No, the most noticeable feature about the man was his
clothes. In no way could it have been guessed of what his coat was made,
for both its sleeves and its skirts were so ragged and filthy as to defy
description, while instead of two posterior tails, there dangled four of those
appendages, with, projecting from them, a torn newspaper. Also, around his
neck there was wrapped something which might have been a stocking, a
garter, or a stomacher, but was certainly not a tie. In short, had Chichikov
chanced to encounter him at a church door, he would have bestowed upon
him a copper or two (for, to do our hero justice, he had a sympathetic heart

and never refrained from presenting a beggar with alms), but in the present
case there was standing before him, not a mendicant, but a landowner—and
a landowner possessed of fully a thousand serfs, the superior of all his
neighbours in wealth of flour and grain, and the owner of storehouses, and
so forth, that were crammed with homespun cloth and linen, tanned and
undressed sheepskins, dried fish, and every conceivable species of produce.
Nevertheless, such a phenomenon is rare in Russia, where the tendency is
rather to prodigality than to parsimony.
For several minutes Plushkin stood mute, while Chichikov remained so
dazed with the appearance of the host and everything else in the room, that
he too, could not begin a conversation, but stood wondering how best to
find words in which to explain the object of his visit. For a while he thought
of expressing himself to the effect that, having heard so much of his host’s
benevolence and other rare qualities of spirit, he had considered it his duty
to come and pay a tribute of respect; but presently even HE came to the
conclusion that this would be overdoing the thing, and, after another glance
round the room, decided that the phrase “benevolence and other rare
qualities of spirit” might to advantage give place to “economy and genius
for method.” Accordingly, the speech mentally composed, he said aloud
that, having heard of Plushkin’s talents for thrifty and systematic
management, he had considered himself bound to make the acquaintance of
his host, and to present him with his personal compliments (I need hardly
say that Chichikov could easily have alleged a better reason, had any better
one happened, at the moment, to have come into his head).
With toothless gums Plushkin murmured something in reply, but nothing
is known as to its precise terms beyond that it included a statement that the
devil was at liberty to fly away with Chichikov’s sentiments. However, the
laws of Russian hospitality do not permit even of a miser infringing their
rules; wherefore Plushkin added to the foregoing a more civil invitation to
be seated.
“It is long since I last received a visitor,” he went on. “Also, I feel bound
to say that I can see little good in their coming. Once introduce the
abominable custom of folk paying calls, and forthwith there will ensue such
ruin to the management of estates that landowners will be forced to feed
their horses on hay. Not for a long, long time have I eaten a meal away from

home—although my own kitchen is a poor one, and has its chimney in such
a state that, were it to become overheated, it would instantly catch fire.”
“What a brute!” thought Chichikov. “I am lucky to have got through so
much pastry and stuffed shoulder of mutton at Sobakevitch’s!”
“Also,” went on Plushkin, “I am ashamed to say that hardly a wisp of
fodder does the place contain. But how can I get fodder? My lands are
small, and the peasantry lazy fellows who hate work and think of nothing
but the tavern. In the end, therefore, I shall be forced to go and spend my
old age in roaming about the world.”
“But I have been told that you possess over a thousand serfs?” said
Chichikov.
“Who told you that? No matter who it was, you would have been
justified in giving him the lie. He must have been a jester who wanted to
make a fool of you. A thousand souls, indeed! Why, just reckon the taxes on
them, and see what there would be left! For these three years that accursed
fever has been killing off my serfs wholesale.”
“Wholesale, you say?” echoed Chichikov, greatly interested.
“Yes, wholesale,” replied the old man.
“Then might I ask you the exact number?”
“Fully eighty.”
“Surely not?”
“But it is so.”
“Then might I also ask whether it is from the date of the last census
revision that you are reckoning these souls?”
“Yes, damn it! And since that date I have been bled for taxes upon a
hundred and twenty souls in all.”
“Indeed? Upon a hundred and twenty souls in all!” And Chichikov’s
surprise and elation were such that, this said, he remained sitting open-
mouthed.
“Yes, good sir,” replied Plushkin. “I am too old to tell you lies, for I have
passed my seventieth year.”
Somehow he seemed to have taken offence at Chichikov’s almost joyous
exclamation; wherefore the guest hastened to heave a profound sigh, and to
observe that he sympathised to the full with his host’s misfortunes.

“But sympathy does not put anything into one’s pocket,” retorted
Plushkin. “For instance, I have a kinsman who is constantly plaguing me.
He is a captain in the army, damn him, and all day he does nothing but call
me ‘dear uncle,’ and kiss my hand, and express sympathy until I am forced
to stop my ears. You see, he has squandered all his money upon his brother-
officers, as well as made a fool of himself with an actress; so now he spends
his time in telling me that he has a sympathetic heart!”
Chichikov hastened to explain that HIS sympathy had nothing in
common with the captain’s, since he dealt, not in empty words alone, but in
actual deeds; in proof of which he was ready then and there (for the purpose
of cutting the matter short, and of dispensing with circumlocution) to
transfer to himself the obligation of paying the taxes due upon such serfs as
Plushkin’s as had, in the unfortunate manner just described, departed this
world. The proposal seemed to astonish Plushkin, for he sat staring open-
eyed. At length he inquired:
“My dear sir, have you seen military service?”
“No,” replied the other warily, “but I have been a member of the CIVIL
Service.”
“Oh! Of the CIVIL Service?” And Plushkin sat moving his lips as though
he were chewing something. “Well, what of your proposal?” he added
presently. “Are you prepared to lose by it?”
“Yes, certainly, if thereby I can please you.”
“My dear sir! My good benefactor!” In his delight Plushkin lost sight of
the fact that his nose was caked with snuff of the consistency of thick
coffee, and that his coat had parted in front and was disclosing some very
unseemly underclothing. “What comfort you have brought to an old man!
Yes, as God is my witness!”
For the moment he could say no more. Yet barely a minute had elapsed
before this instantaneously aroused emotion had, as instantaneously,
disappeared from his wooden features. Once more they assumed a careworn
expression, and he even wiped his face with his handkerchief, then rolled it
into a ball, and rubbed it to and fro against his upper lip.
“If it will not annoy you again to state the proposal,” he went on, “what
you undertake to do is to pay the annual tax upon these souls, and to remit
the money either to me or to the Treasury?”

“Yes, that is how it shall be done. We will draw up a deed of purchase as
though the souls were still alive and you had sold them to myself.”
“Quite so—a deed of purchase,” echoed Plushkin, once more relapsing
into thought and the chewing motion of the lips. “But a deed of such a kind
will entail certain expenses, and lawyers are so devoid of conscience! In
fact, so extortionate is their avarice that they will charge one half a rouble,
and then a sack of flour, and then a whole waggon-load of meal. I wonder
that no one has yet called attention to the system.”
Upon that Chichikov intimated that, out of respect for his host, he
himself would bear the cost of the transfer of souls. This led Plushkin to
conclude that his guest must be the kind of unconscionable fool who, while
pretending to have been a member of the Civil Service, has in reality served
in the army and run after actresses; wherefore the old man no longer
disguised his delight, but called down blessings alike upon Chichikov’s
head and upon those of his children (he had never even inquired whether
Chichikov possessed a family). Next, he shuffled to the window, and,
tapping one of its panes, shouted the name of “Proshka.” Immediately some
one ran quickly into the hall, and, after much stamping of feet, burst into the
room. This was Proshka—a thirteen-year-old youngster who was shod with
boots of such dimensions as almost to engulf his legs as he walked. The
reason why he had entered thus shod was that Plushkin only kept one pair
of boots for the whole of his domestic staff. This universal pair was
stationed in the hall of the mansion, so that any servant who was summoned
to the house might don the said boots after wading barefooted through the
mud of the courtyard, and enter the parlour dry-shod—subsequently leaving
the boots where he had found them, and departing in his former barefooted
condition. Indeed, had any one, on a slushy winter’s morning, glanced from
a window into the said courtyard, he would have seen Plushkin’s servitors
performing saltatory feats worthy of the most vigorous of stage-dancers.
“Look at that boy’s face!” said Plushkin to Chichikov as he pointed to
Proshka. “It is stupid enough, yet, lay anything aside, and in a trice he will
have stolen it. Well, my lad, what do you want?”
He paused a moment or two, but Proshka made no reply.
“Come, come!” went on the old man. “Set out the samovar, and then give
Mavra the key of the store-room—here it is—and tell her to get out some
loaf sugar for tea. Here! Wait another moment, fool! Is the devil in your

legs that they itch so to be off? Listen to what more I have to tell you. Tell
Mavra that the sugar on the outside of the loaf has gone bad, so that she
must scrape it off with a knife, and NOT throw away the scrapings, but give
them to the poultry. Also, see that you yourself don’t go into the storeroom,
or I will give you a birching that you won’t care for. Your appetite is good
enough already, but a better one won’t hurt you. Don’t even TRY to go into
the storeroom, for I shall be watching you from this window.”
“You see,” the old man added to Chichikov, “one can never trust these
fellows.” Presently, when Proshka and the boots had departed, he fell to
gazing at his guest with an equally distrustful air, since certain features in
Chichikov’s benevolence now struck him as a little open to question, and he
had begin to think to himself: “After all, the devil only knows who he is—
whether a braggart, like most of these spendthrifts, or a fellow who is lying
merely in order to get some tea out of me.” Finally, his circumspection,
combined with a desire to test his guest, led him to remark that it might be
well to complete the transaction IMMEDIATELY, since he had not
overmuch confidence in humanity, seeing that a man might be alive to-day
and dead to-morrow.
To this Chichikov assented readily enough—merely adding that he
should like first of all to be furnished with a list of the dead souls. This
reassured Plushkin as to his guest’s intention of doing business, so he got
out his keys, approached a cupboard, and, having pulled back the door,
rummaged among the cups and glasses with which it was filled. At length
he said:
“I cannot find it now, but I used to possess a splendid bottle of liquor.
Probably the servants have drunk it all, for they are such thieves. Oh no:
perhaps this is it!”
Looking up, Chichikov saw that Plushkin had extracted a decanter coated
with dust.
“My late wife made the stuff,” went on the old man, “but that rascal of a
housekeeper went and threw away a lot of it, and never even replaced the
stopper. Consequently bugs and other nasty creatures got into the decanter,
but I cleaned it out, and now beg to offer you a glassful.”
The idea of a drink from such a receptacle was too much for Chichikov,
so he excused himself on the ground that he had just had luncheon.

“You have just had luncheon?” re-echoed Plushkin. “Now, THAT shows
how invariably one can tell a man of good society, wheresoever one may
be. A man of that kind never eats anything—he always says that he has had
enough. Very different that from the ways of a rogue, whom one can never
satisfy, however much one may give him. For instance, that captain of mine
is constantly begging me to let him have a meal—though he is about as
much my nephew as I am his grandfather. As it happens, there is never a
bite of anything in the house, so he has to go away empty. But about the list
of those good-for-nothing souls—I happen to possess such a list, since I
have drawn one up in readiness for the next revision.”
With that Plushkin donned his spectacles, and once more started to
rummage in the cupboard, and to smother his guest with dust as he untied
successive packages of papers—so much so that his victim burst out
sneezing. Finally he extracted a much-scribbled document in which the
names of the deceased peasants lay as close-packed as a cloud of midges,
for there were a hundred and twenty of them in all. Chichikov grinned with
joy at the sight of the multitude. Stuffing the list into his pocket, he
remarked that, to complete the transaction, it would be necessary to return
to the town.
“To the town?” repeated Plushkin. “But why? Moreover, how could I
leave the house, seeing that every one of my servants is either a thief or a
rogue? Day by day they pilfer things, until soon I shall have not a single
coat to hang on my back.”
“Then you possess acquaintances in the town?”
“Acquaintances? No. Every acquaintance whom I ever possessed has
either left me or is dead. But stop a moment. I DO know the President of
the Council. Even in my old age he has once or twice come to visit me, for
he and I used to be schoolfellows, and to go climbing walls together. Yes,
him I do know. Shall I write him a letter?”
“By all means.”
“Yes, him I know well, for we were friends together at school.”
Over Plushkin’s wooden features there had gleamed a ray of warmth—a
ray which expressed, if not feeling, at all events feeling’s pale reflection.
Just such a phenomenon may be witnessed when, for a brief moment, a
drowning man makes a last re-appearance on the surface of a river, and
there rises from the crowd lining the banks a cry of hope that even yet the

exhausted hands may clutch the rope which has been thrown him—may
clutch it before the surface of the unstable element shall have resumed for
ever its calm, dread vacuity. But the hope is short-lived, and the hands
disappear. Even so did Plushkin’s face, after its momentary manifestation of
feeling, become meaner and more insensible than ever.
“There used to be a sheet of clean writing paper lying on the table,” he
went on. “But where it is now I cannot think. That comes of my servants
being such rascals.”
With that he fell to looking also under the table, as well as to hurrying
about with cries of “Mavra, Mavra!” At length the call was answered by a
woman with a plateful of the sugar of which mention has been made;
whereupon there ensued the following conversation.
“What have you done with my piece of writing paper, you pilferer?”
“I swear that I have seen no paper except the bit with which you covered
the glass.”
“Your very face tells me that you have made off with it.”
“Why should I make off with it? ‘Twould be of no use to me, for I can
neither read nor write.”
“You lie! You have taken it away for the sexton to scribble upon.”
“Well, if the sexton wanted paper he could get some for himself. Neither
he nor I have set eyes upon your piece.”
“Ah! Wait a bit, for on the Judgment Day you will be roasted by devils
on iron spits. Just see if you are not!”
“But why should I be roasted when I have never even TOUCHED the
paper? You might accuse me of any other fault than theft.”
“Nay, devils shall roast you, sure enough. They will say to you, ‘Bad
woman, we are doing this because you robbed your master,’ and then stoke
up the fire still hotter.”
“Nevertheless I shall continue to say, ‘You are roasting me for nothing,
for I never stole anything at all.’ Why, THERE it is, lying on the table! You
have been accusing me for no reason whatever!”
And, sure enough, the sheet of paper was lying before Plushkin’s very
eyes. For a moment or two he chewed silently. Then he went on:

“Well, and what are you making such a noise about? If one says a single
word to you, you answer back with ten. Go and fetch me a candle to seal a
letter with. And mind you bring a TALLOW candle, for it will not cost so
much as the other sort. And bring me a match too.”
Mavra departed, and Plushkin, seating himself, and taking up a pen, sat
turning the sheet of paper over and over, as though in doubt whether to tear
from it yet another morsel. At length he came to the conclusion that it was
impossible to do so, and therefore, dipping the pen into the mixture of
mouldy fluid and dead flies which the ink bottle contained, started to indite
the letter in characters as bold as the notes of a music score, while
momentarily checking the speed of his hand, lest it should meander too
much over the paper, and crawling from line to line as though he regretted
that there was so little vacant space left on the sheet.
“And do you happen to know any one to whom a few runaway serfs
would be of use?” he asked as subsequently he folded the letter.
“What? You have some runaways as well?” exclaimed Chichikov, again
greatly interested.
“Certainly I have. My son-in-law has laid the necessary information
against them, but says that their tracks have grown cold. However, he is
only a military man—that is to say, good at clinking a pair of spurs, but of
no use for laying a plea before a court.”
“And how many runaways have you?”
“About seventy.”
“Surely not?”
“Alas, yes. Never does a year pass without a certain number of them
making off. Yet so gluttonous and idle are my serfs that they are simply
bursting with food, whereas I scarcely get enough to eat. I will take any
price for them that you may care to offer. Tell your friends about it, and,
should they find even a score of the runaways, it will repay them
handsomely, seeing that a living serf on the census list is at present worth
five hundred roubles.”
“Perhaps so, but I am not going to let any one but myself have a finger in
this,” thought Chichikov to himself; after which he explained to Plushkin
that a friend of the kind mentioned would be impossible to discover, since

the legal expenses of the enterprise would lead to the said friend having to
cut the very tail from his coat before he would get clear of the lawyers.
“Nevertheless,” added Chichikov, “seeing that you are so hard pressed
for money, and that I am so interested in the matter, I feel moved to advance
you—well, to advance you such a trifle as would scarcely be worth
mentioning.”
“But how much is it?” asked Plushkin eagerly, and with his hands
trembling like quicksilver.
“Twenty-five kopecks per soul.”
“What? In ready money?”
“Yes—in money down.”
“Nevertheless, consider my poverty, dear friend, and make it FORTY
kopecks per soul.”
“Venerable sir, would that I could pay you not merely forty kopecks, but
five hundred roubles. I should be only too delighted if that were possible,
since I perceive that you, an aged and respected gentleman, are suffering for
your own goodness of heart.”
“By God, that is true, that is true.” Plushkin hung his head, and wagged it
feebly from side to side. “Yes, all that I have done I have done purely out of
kindness.”
“See how instantaneously I have divined your nature! By now it will
have become clear to you why it is impossible for me to pay you five
hundred roubles per runaway soul: for by now you will have gathered the
fact that I am not sufficiently rich. Nevertheless, I am ready to add another
five kopecks, and so to make it that each runaway serf shall cost me, in all,
thirty kopecks.”
“As you please, dear sir. Yet stretch another point, and throw in another
two kopecks.”
“Pardon me, but I cannot. How many runaway serfs did you say that you
possess? Seventy?”
“No; seventy-eight.”
“Seventy-eight souls at thirty kopecks each will amount to—to—” only
for a moment did our hero halt, since he was strong in his arithmetic, “—
will amount to twenty-four roubles, ninety-six kopecks.” 28

With that he requested Plushkin to make out the receipt, and then handed
him the money. Plushkin took it in both hands, bore it to a bureau with as
much caution as though he were carrying a liquid which might at any
moment splash him in the face, and, arrived at the bureau, and glancing
round once more, carefully packed the cash in one of his money bags,
where, doubtless, it was destined to lie buried until, to the intense joy of his
daughters and his son-in-law (and, perhaps, of the captain who claimed
kinship with him), he should himself receive burial at the hands of Fathers
Carp and Polycarp, the two priests attached to his village. Lastly, the money
concealed, Plushkin re-seated himself in the armchair, and seemed at a loss
for further material for conversation.
“Are you thinking of starting?” at length he inquired, on seeing
Chichikov making a trifling movement, though the movement was only to
extract from his pocket a handkerchief. Nevertheless the question reminded
Chichikov that there was no further excuse for lingering.
“Yes, I must be going,” he said as he took his hat.
“Then what about the tea?”
“Thank you, I will have some on my next visit.”
“What? Even though I have just ordered the samovar to be got ready?
Well, well! I myself do not greatly care for tea, for I think it an expensive
beverage. Moreover, the price of sugar has risen terribly.”
“Proshka!” he then shouted. “The samovar will not be needed. Return the
sugar to Mavra, and tell her to put it back again. But no. Bring the sugar
here, and I will put it back.”
“Good-bye, dear sir,” finally he added to Chichikov. “May the Lord bless
you! Hand that letter to the President of the Council, and let him read it.
Yes, he is an old friend of mine. We knew one another as schoolfellows.”
With that this strange phenomenon, this withered old man, escorted his
guest to the gates of the courtyard, and, after the guest had departed,
ordered the gates to be closed, made the round of the outbuildings for the
purpose of ascertaining whether the numerous watchmen were at their
posts, peered into the kitchen (where, under the pretence of seeing whether
his servants were being properly fed, he made a light meal of cabbage soup
and gruel), rated the said servants soundly for their thievishness and general
bad behaviour, and then returned to his room. Meditating in solitude, he fell

to thinking how best he could contrive to recompense his guest for the
latter’s measureless benevolence. “I will present him,” he thought to
himself, “with a watch. It is a good silver article—not one of those cheap
metal affairs; and though it has suffered some damage, he can easily get that
put right. A young man always needs to give a watch to his betrothed.”
“No,” he added after further thought. “I will leave him the watch in my
will, as a keepsake.”
Meanwhile our hero was bowling along in high spirit. Such an
unexpected acquisition both of dead souls and of runaway serfs had come
as a windfall. Even before reaching Plushkin’s village he had had a
presentiment that he would do successful business there, but not business of
such pre-eminent profitableness as had actually resulted. As he proceeded
he whistled, hummed with hand placed trumpetwise to his mouth, and
ended by bursting into a burst of melody so striking that Selifan, after
listening for a while, nodded his head and exclaimed, “My word, but the
master CAN sing!”
By the time they reached the town darkness had fallen, and changed the
character of the scene. The britchka bounded over the cobblestones, and at
length turned into the hostelry’s courtyard, where the travellers were met by
Petrushka. With one hand holding back the tails of his coat (which he never
liked to see fly apart), the valet assisted his master to alight. The waiter ran
out with candle in hand and napkin on shoulder. Whether or not Petrushka
was glad to see the barin return it is impossible to say, but at all events he
exchanged a wink with Selifan, and his ordinarily morose exterior seemed
momentarily to brighten.
“Then you have been travelling far, sir?” said the waiter, as he lit the way
upstarts.
“Yes,” said Chichikov. “What has happened here in the meanwhile?”
“Nothing, sir,” replied the waiter, bowing, “except that last night there
arrived a military lieutenant. He has got room number sixteen.”
“A lieutenant?”
“Yes. He came from Riazan, driving three grey horses.”
On entering his room, Chichikov clapped his hand to his nose, and asked
his valet why he had never had the windows opened.

“But I did have them opened,” replied Petrushka. Nevertheless this was a
lie, as Chichikov well knew, though he was too tired to contest the point.
After ordering and consuming a light supper of sucking pig, he undressed,
plunged beneath the bedclothes, and sank into the profound slumber which
comes only to such fortunate folk as are troubled neither with mosquitoes
nor fleas nor excessive activity of brain.

CHAPTER VII

When Chichikov awoke he stretched himself and realised that he had
slept well. For a moment or two he lay on his back, and then suddenly
clapped his hands at the recollection that he was now owner of nearly four
hundred souls. At once he leapt out of bed without so much as glancing at
his face in the mirror, though, as a rule, he had much solicitude for his
features, and especially for his chin, of which he would make the most
when in company with friends, and more particularly should any one
happen to enter while he was engaged in the process of shaving. “Look how
round my chin is!” was his usual formula. On the present occasion,
however, he looked neither at chin nor at any other feature, but at once
donned his flower-embroidered slippers of morroco leather (the kind of
slippers in which, thanks to the Russian love for a dressing-gowned
existence, the town of Torzhok does such a huge trade), and, clad only in a
meagre shirt, so far forgot his elderliness and dignity as to cut a couple of
capers after the fashion of a Scottish highlander—alighting neatly, each
time, on the flat of his heels. Only when he had done that did he proceed to
business. Planting himself before his dispatch-box, he rubbed his hands
with a satisfaction worthy of an incorruptible rural magistrate when
adjourning for luncheon; after which he extracted from the receptacle a
bundle of papers. These he had decided not to deposit with a lawyer, for the
reason that he would hasten matters, as well as save expense, by himself
framing and fair-copying the necessary deeds of indenture; and since he
was thoroughly acquainted with the necessary terminology, he proceeded to
inscribe in large characters the date, and then in smaller ones, his name and
rank. By two o’clock the whole was finished, and as he looked at the sheets
of names representing bygone peasants who had ploughed, worked at
handicrafts, cheated their masters, fetched, carried, and got drunk (though
SOME of them may have behaved well), there came over him a strange,
unaccountable sensation. To his eye each list of names seemed to possess a
character of its own; and even individual peasants therein seemed to have

taken on certain qualities peculiar to themselves. For instance, to the
majority of Madame Korobotchka’s serfs there were appended nicknames
and other additions; Plushkin’s list was distinguished by a conciseness of
exposition which had led to certain of the items being represented merely
by Christian name, patronymic, and a couple of dots; and Sobakevitch’s list
was remarkable for its amplitude and circumstantiality, in that not a single
peasant had such of his peculiar characteristics omitted as that the deceased
had been “excellent at joinery,” or “sober and ready to pay attention to his
work.” Also, in Sobakevitch’s list there was recorded who had been the
father and the mother of each of the deceased, and how those parents had
behaved themselves. Only against the name of a certain Thedotov was there
inscribed: “Father unknown, Mother the maidservant Kapitolina, Morals
and Honesty good.” These details communicated to the document a certain
air of freshness, they seemed to connote that the peasants in question had
lived but yesterday. As Chichikov scanned the list he felt softened in spirit,
and said with a sigh:
“My friends, what a concourse of you is here! How did you all pass your
lives, my brethren? And how did you all come to depart hence?”
As he spoke his eyes halted at one name in particular—that of the same
Peter Saveliev Neuvazhai Korito who had once been the property of the
window Korobotchka. Once more he could not help exclaiming:
“What a series of titles! They occupy a whole line! Peter Saveliev, I
wonder whether you were an artisan or a plain muzhik. Also, I wonder how
you came to meet your end; whether in a tavern, or whether through going
to sleep in the middle of the road and being run over by a train of waggons.
Again, I see the name, ‘Probka Stepan, carpenter, very sober.’ That must be
the hero of whom the Guards would have been so glad to get hold. How
well I can imagine him tramping the country with an axe in his belt and his
boots on his shoulder, and living on a few groats’-worth of bread and dried
fish per day, and taking home a couple of half-rouble pieces in his purse,
and sewing the notes into his breeches, or stuffing them into his boots! In
what manner came you by your end, Probka Stepan? Did you, for good
wages, mount a scaffold around the cupola of the village church, and,
climbing thence to the cross above, miss your footing on a beam, and fall
headlong with none at hand but Uncle Michai—the good uncle who,
scratching the back of his neck, and muttering, ‘Ah, Vania, for once you

have been too clever!’ straightway lashed himself to a rope, and took your
place? ‘Maksim Teliatnikov, shoemaker.’ A shoemaker, indeed? ‘As drunk
as a shoemaker,’ says the proverb. I know what you were like, my friend. If
you wish, I will tell you your whole history. You were apprenticed to a
German, who fed you and your fellows at a common table, thrashed you
with a strap, kept you indoors whenever you had made a mistake, and spoke
of you in uncomplimentary terms to his wife and friends. At length, when
your apprenticeship was over, you said to yourself, ‘I am going to set up on
my own account, and not just to scrape together a kopeck here and a kopeck
there, as the Germans do, but to grow rich quick.’ Hence you took a shop at
a high rent, bespoke a few orders, and set to work to buy up some rotten
leather out of which you could make, on each pair of boots, a double profit.
But those boots split within a fortnight, and brought down upon your head
dire showers of maledictions; with the result that gradually your shop grew
empty of customers, and you fell to roaming the streets and exclaiming,
‘The world is a very poor place indeed! A Russian cannot make a living for
German competition.’ Well, well! ‘Elizabeta Vorobei!’ But that is a
WOMAN’S name! How comes SHE to be on the list? That villain
Sobakevitch must have sneaked her in without my knowing it.”
“‘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.”
“Possibly,” said Ivan Antonovitch without enthusiasm. “But Ivan
Grigorievitch alone will not do—it is customary to have others as well.”
“Yes, but the absence of others will not altogether invalidate the
transaction. I too have been in the service, and know how things can be
done.”
“You had better go and see Ivan Grigorievitch,” said Ivan Antonovitch
more mildly. “Should he give you an order addressed to whom it may
concern, we shall soon be able to settle the matter.”
Upon that Chichikov pulled from his pocket a paper, and laid it before
Ivan Antonovitch. At once the latter covered it with a book. Chichikov
again attempted to show it to him, but, with a movement of his head, Ivan
Antonovitch signified that that was unnecessary.
“A clerk,” he added, “will now conduct you to Ivan Grigorievitch’s
room.”
Upon that one of the toilers in the service of Themis—a zealot who had
offered her such heartfelt sacrifice that his coat had burst at the elbows and
lacked a lining—escorted our friends (even as Virgil had once escorted
Dante) to the apartment of the Presence. In this sanctum were some massive

armchairs, a table laden with two or three fat books, and a large looking-
glass. Lastly, in (apparently) sunlike isolation, there was seated at the table
the President. On arriving at the door of the apartment, our modern Virgil
seemed to have become so overwhelmed with awe that, without daring even
to intrude a foot, he turned back, and, in so doing, once more exhibited a
back as shiny as a mat, and having adhering to it, in one spot, a chicken’s
feather. As soon as the two friends had entered the hall of the Presence they
perceived that the President was NOT alone, but, on the contrary, had
seated by his side Sobakevitch, whose form had hitherto been concealed by
the intervening mirror. The newcomers’ entry evoked sundry exclamations
and the pushing back of a pair of Government chairs as the voluminous-
sleeved Sobakevitch rose into view from behind the looking-glass.
Chichikov the President received with an embrace, and for a while the hall
of the Presence resounded with osculatory salutations as mutually the pair
inquired after one another’s health. It seemed that both had lately had a
touch of that pain under the waistband which comes of a sedentary life.
Also, it seemed that the President had just been conversing with
Sobakevitch on the subject of sales of souls, since he now proceeded to
congratulate Chichikov on the same—a proceeding which rather
embarrassed our hero, seeing that Manilov and Sobakevitch, two of the
vendors, and persons with whom he had bargained in the strictest privacy,
were now confronting one another direct. However, Chichikov duly thanked
the President, and then, turning to Sobakevitch, inquired after HIS health.
“Thank God, I have nothing to complain of,” replied Sobakevitch: which
was true enough, seeing that a piece of iron would have caught cold and
taken to sneezing sooner than would that uncouthly fashioned landowner.
“Ah, yes; you have always had good health, have you not?” put in the
President. “Your late father was equally strong.”
“Yes, he even went out bear hunting alone,” replied Sobakevitch.
“I should think that you too could worst a bear if you were to try a tussle
with him,” rejoined the President.
“Oh no,” said Sobakevitch. “My father was a stronger man than I am.”
Then with a sigh the speaker added: “But nowadays there are no such men
as he. What is even a life like mine worth?”
“Then you do not have a comfortable time of it?” exclaimed the
President.

“No; far from it,” rejoined Sobakevitch, shaking his head. “Judge for
yourself, Ivan Grigorievitch. I am fifty years old, yet never in my life had
been ill, except for an occasional carbuncle or boil. That is not a good sign.
Sooner or later I shall have to pay for it.” And he relapsed into melancholy.
“Just listen to the fellow!” was Chichikov’s and the President’s joint
inward comment. “What on earth has HE to complain of?”
“I have a letter for you, Ivan Grigorievitch,” went on Chichikov aloud as
he produced from his pocket Plushkin’s epistle.
“From whom?” inquired the President. Having broken the seal, he
exclaimed: “Why, it is from Plushkin! To think that HE is still alive! What a
strange world it is! He used to be such a nice fellow, and now—”
“And now he is a cur,” concluded Sobakevitch, “as well as a miser who
starves his serfs to death.”
“Allow me a moment,” said the President. Then he read the letter
through. When he had finished he added: “Yes, I am quite ready to act as
Plushkin’s attorney. When do you wish the purchase deeds to be registered,
Monsieur Chichikov—now or later?”
“Now, if you please,” replied Chichikov. “Indeed, I beg that, if possible,
the affair may be concluded to-day, since to-morrow I wish to leave the
town. I have brought with me both the forms of indenture and my statement
of application.”
“Very well. Nevertheless we cannot let you depart so soon. The
indentures shall be completed to-day, but you must continue your sojourn in
our midst. I will issue the necessary orders at once.”
So saying, he opened the door into the general office, where the clerks
looked like a swarm of bees around a honeycomb (if I may liken affairs of
Government to such an article?).
“Is Ivan Antonovitch here?” asked the President.
“Yes,” replied a voice from within.
“Then send him here.”
Upon that the pitcher-faced Ivan Antonovitch made his appearance in the
doorway, and bowed.
“Take these indentures, Ivan Antonovitch,” said the President, “and see
that they—”

“But first I would ask you to remember,” put in Sobakevitch, “that
witnesses ought to be in attendance—not less than two on behalf of either
party. Let us, therefore, send for the Public Prosecutor, who has little to do,
and has even that little done for him by his chief clerk, Zolotucha. The
Inspector of the Medical Department is also a man of leisure, and likely to
be at home—if he has not gone out to a card party. Others also there are—
all men who cumber the ground for nothing.”
“Quite so, quite so,” agreed the President, and at once dispatched a clerk
to fetch the persons named.
“Also,” requested Chichikov, “I should be glad if you would send for the
accredited representative of a certain lady landowner with whom I have
done business. He is the son of a Father Cyril, and a clerk in your offices.”
“Certainly we shall call him here,” replied the President. “Everything
shall be done to meet your convenience, and I forbid you to present any of
our officials with a gratuity. That is a special request on my part. No friend
of mine ever pays a copper.”
With that he gave Ivan Antonovitch the necessary instructions; and
though they scarcely seemed to meet with that functionary’s approval, upon
the President the purchase deeds had evidently produced an excellent
impression, more especially since the moment when he had perceived the
sum total to amount to nearly a hundred thousand roubles. For a moment or
two he gazed into Chichikov’s eyes with an expression of profound
satisfaction. Then he said:
“Well done, Paul Ivanovitch! You have indeed made a nice haul!”
“That is so,” replied Chichikov.
“Excellent business! Yes, excellent business!”
“I, too, conceive that I could not well have done better. The truth is that
never until a man has driven home the piles of his life’s structure upon a
lasting bottom, instead of upon the wayward chimeras of youth, will his
aims in life assume a definite end.” And, that said, Chichikov went on to
deliver himself of a very telling indictment of Liberalism and our modern
young men. Yet in his words there seemed to lurk a certain lack of
conviction. Somehow he seemed secretly to be saying to himself, “My good
sir, you are talking the most absolute rubbish, and nothing but rubbish.” Nor
did he even throw a glance at Sobakevitch and Manilov. It was as though he

were uncertain what he might not encounter in their expression. Yet he need
not have been afraid. Never once did Sobakevitch’s face move a muscle,
and, as for Manilov, he was too much under the spell of Chichikov’s
eloquence to do aught beyond nod his approval at intervals, and strike the
kind of attitude which is assumed by lovers of music when a lady singer
has, in rivalry of an accompanying violin, produced a note whereof the
shrillness would exceed even the capacity of a bird’s throstle.
“But why not tell Ivan Grigorievitch precisely what you have bought?”
inquired Sobakevitch of Chichikov. “And why, Ivan Grigorievitch, do YOU
not ask Monsieur Chichikov precisely what his purchases have consisted
of? What a splendid lot of serfs, to be sure! I myself have sold him my
wheelwright, Michiev.”
“What? You have sold him Michiev?” exclaimed the President. “I know
the man well. He is a splendid craftsman, and, on one occasion, made me a
drozhki 32. Only, only—well, lately didn’t you tell me that he is dead?”
“That Michiev is dead?” re-echoed Sobakevitch, coming perilously near
to laughing. “Oh dear no! That was his brother. Michiev himself is very
much alive, and in even better health than he used to be. Any day he could
knock you up a britchka such as you could not procure even in Moscow.
However, he is now bound to work for only one master.”
“Indeed a splendid craftsman!” repeated the President. “My only wonder
is that you can have brought yourself to part with him.”
“Then think you that Michiev is the ONLY serf with whom I have
parted? Nay, for I have parted also with Probka Stepan, my carpenter, with
Milushkin, my bricklayer, and with Teliatnikov, my bootmaker. Yes, the
whole lot I have sold.”
And to the President’s inquiry why he had so acted, seeing that the serfs
named were all skilled workers and indispensable to a household,
Sobakevitch replied that a mere whim had led him to do so, and thus the
sale had owed its origin to a piece of folly. Then he hung his head as though
already repenting of his rash act, and added:
“Although a man of grey hairs, I have not yet learned wisdom.”
“But,” inquired the President further, “how comes it about, Paul
Ivanovitch, that you have purchased peasants apart from land? Is it for
transferment elsewhere that you need them?”

“Yes.”
“Very well, then. That is quite another matter. To what province of the
country?”
“To the province of Kherson.”
“Indeed? That region contains some splendid land,” said the President;
whereupon he proceeded to expatiate on the fertility of the Kherson
pastures.
“And have you MUCH land there?” he continued.
“Yes; quite sufficient to accommodate the serfs whom I have purchased.”
“And is there a river on the estate or a lake?”
“Both.”
After this reply Chichikov involuntarily threw a glance at Sobakevitch;
and though that landowner’s face was as motionless as every other, the
other seemed to detect in it: “You liar! Don’t tell ME that you own both a
river and a lake, as well as the land which you say you do.”
Whilst the foregoing conversation had been in progress, various
witnesses had been arriving on the scene. They consisted of the constantly
blinking Public Prosecutor, the Inspector of the Medical Department, and
others—all, to quote Sobakevitch, “men who cumbered the ground for
nothing.” With some of them, however, Chichikov was altogether
unacquainted, since certain substitutes and supernumeraries had to be
pressed into the service from among the ranks of the subordinate staff.
There also arrived, in answer to the summons, not only the son of Father
Cyril before mentioned, but also Father Cyril himself. Each such witness
appended to his signature a full list of his dignities and qualifications: one
man in printed characters, another in a flowing hand, a third in topsy-turvy
characters of a kind never before seen in the Russian alphabet, and so forth.
Meanwhile our friend Ivan Antonovitch comported himself with not a little
address; and after the indentures had been signed, docketed, and registered,
Chichikov found himself called upon to pay only the merest trifle in the
way of Government percentage and fees for publishing the transaction in
the Official Gazette. The reason of this was that the President had given
orders that only half the usual charges were to be exacted from the present
purchaser—the remaining half being somehow debited to the account of
another applicant for serf registration.

“And now,” said Ivan Grigorievitch when all was completed, “we need
only to wet the bargain.”
“For that too I am ready,” said Chichikov. “Do you but name the hour. If,
in return for your most agreeable company, I were not to set a few
champagne corks flying, I should be indeed in default.”
“But we are not going to let you charge yourself with anything
whatsoever. WE must provide the champagne, for you are our guest, and it
is for us—it is our duty, it is our bounden obligation—to entertain you.
Look here, gentlemen. Let us adjourn to the house of the Chief of Police.
He is the magician who needs but to wink when passing a fishmonger’s or a
wine merchant’s. Not only shall we fare well at his place, but also we shall
get a game of whist.”
To this proposal no one had any objection to offer, for the mere mention
of the fish shop aroused the witnesses’ appetite. Consequently, the
ceremony being over, there was a general reaching for hats and caps. As the
party were passing through the general office, Ivan Antonovitch whispered
in Chichikov’s ear, with a courteous inclination of his jug-shaped
physiognomy:
“You have given a hundred thousand roubles for the serfs, but have paid
ME only a trifle for my trouble.”
“Yes,” replied Chichikov with a similar whisper, “but what sort of serfs
do you suppose them to be? They are a poor, useless lot, and not worth even
half the purchase money.”
This gave Ivan Antonovitch to understand that the visitor was a man of
strong character—a man from whom nothing more was to be expected.
“Why have you gone and purchased souls from Plushkin?” whispered
Sobakevitch in Chichikov’s other ear.
“Why did YOU go and add the woman Vorobei to your list?” retorted
Chichikov.
“Vorobei? Who is Vorobei?”
“The woman ‘Elizabet’ Vorobei—‘Elizabet,’ not ‘Elizabeta?’”
“I added no such name,” replied Sobakevitch, and straightway joined the
other guests.

At length the party arrived at the residence of the Chief of Police. The
latter proved indeed a man of spells, for no sooner had he learnt what was
afoot than he summoned a brisk young constable, whispered in his ear,
adding laconically, “You understand, do you not?” and brought it about that,
during the time that the guests were cutting for partners at whist in an
adjoining room, the dining-table became laden with sturgeon, caviare,
salmon, herrings, cheese, smoked tongue, fresh roe, and a potted variety of
the same—all procured from the local fish market, and reinforced with
additions from the host’s own kitchen. The fact was that the worthy Chief of
Police filled the office of a sort of father and general benefactor to the town,
and that he moved among the citizens as though they constituted part and
parcel of his own family, and watched over their shops and markets as
though those establishments were merely his own private larder. Indeed, it
would be difficult to say—so thoroughly did he perform his duties in this
respect—whether the post most fitted him, or he the post. Matters were also
so arranged that though his income more than doubled that of his
predecessors, he had never lost the affection of his fellow townsmen. In
particular did the tradesmen love him, since he was never above standing
godfather to their children or dining at their tables. True, he had differences
of opinion with them, and serious differences at that; but always these were
skilfully adjusted by his slapping the offended ones jovially on the shoulder,
drinking a glass of tea with them, promising to call at their houses and play
a game of chess, asking after their belongings, and, should he learn that a
child of theirs was ill, prescribing the proper medicine. In short, he bore the
reputation of being a very good fellow.
On perceiving the feast to be ready, the host proposed that his guests
should finish their whist after luncheon; whereupon all proceeded to the
room whence for some time past an agreeable odour had been tickling the
nostrils of those present, and towards the door of which Sobakevitch in
particular had been glancing since the moment when he had caught sight of
a huge sturgeon reposing on the sideboard. After a glassful of warm, olive-
coloured vodka apiece—vodka of the tint to be seen only in the species of
Siberian stone whereof seals are cut—the company applied themselves to
knife-and-fork work, and, in so doing, evinced their several characteristics
and tastes. For instance, Sobakevitch, disdaining lesser trifles, tackled the
large sturgeon, and, during the time that his fellow guests were eating minor
comestibles, and drinking and talking, contrived to consume more than a

quarter of the whole fish; so that, on the host remembering the creature,
and, with fork in hand, leading the way in its direction and saying, “What,
gentlemen, think you of this striking product of nature?” there ensued the
discovery that of the said product of nature there remained little beyond the
tail, while Sobakevitch, with an air as though at least HE had not eaten it,
was engaged in plunging his fork into a much more diminutive piece of fish
which happened to be resting on an adjacent platter. After his divorce from
the sturgeon, Sobakevitch ate and drank no more, but sat frowning and
blinking in an armchair.
Apparently the host was not a man who believed in sparing the wine, for
the toasts drunk were innumerable. The first toast (as the reader may guess)
was quaffed to the health of the new landowner of Kherson; the second to
the prosperity of his peasants and their safe transferment; and the third to
the beauty of his future wife—a compliment which brought to our hero’s
lips a flickering smile. Lastly, he received from the company a pressing, as
well as an unanimous, invitation to extend his stay in town for at least
another fortnight, and, in the meanwhile, to allow a wife to be found for
him.
“Quite so,” agreed the President. “Fight us tooth and nail though you
may, we intend to have you married. You have happened upon us by
chance, and you shall have no reason to repent of it. We are in earnest on
this subject.”
“But why should I fight you tooth and nail?” said Chichikov, smiling.
“Marriage would not come amiss to me, were I but provided with a
betrothed.”
“Then a betrothed you shall have. Why not? We will do as you wish.”
“Very well,” assented Chichikov.
“Bravo, bravo!” the company shouted. “Long live Paul Ivanovitch!
Hurrah! Hurrah!” And with that every one approached to clink glasses with
him, and he readily accepted the compliment, and accepted it many times in
succession. Indeed, as the hours passed on, the hilarity of the company
increased yet further, and more than once the President (a man of great
urbanity when thoroughly in his cups) embraced the chief guest of the day
with the heartfelt words, “My dearest fellow! My own most precious of
friends!” Nay, he even started to crack his fingers, to dance around
Chichikov’s chair, and to sing snatches of a popular song. To the

champagne succeeded Hungarian wine, which had the effect of still further
heartening and enlivening the company. By this time every one had
forgotten about whist, and given himself up to shouting and disputing.
Every conceivable subject was discussed, including politics and military
affairs; and in this connection guests voiced jejune opinions for the
expression of which they would, at any other time, have soundly spanked
their offspring. Chichikov, like the rest, had never before felt so gay, and,
imagining himself really and truly to be a landowner of Kherson, spoke of
various improvements in agriculture, of the three-field system of tillage 33,
and of the beatific felicity of a union between two kindred souls. Also, he
started to recite poetry to Sobakevitch, who blinked as he listened, for he
greatly desired to go to sleep. At length the guest of the evening realised
that matters had gone far enough, so begged to be given a lift home, and
was accommodated with the Public Prosecutor’s drozhki. Luckily the driver
of the vehicle was a practised man at his work, for, while driving with one
hand, he succeeded in leaning backwards and, with the other, holding
Chichikov securely in his place. Arrived at the inn, our hero continued
babbling awhile about a flaxen-haired damsel with rosy lips and a dimple in
her right cheek, about villages of his in Kherson, and about the amount of
his capital. Nay, he even issued seignorial instructions that Selifan should
go and muster the peasants about to be transferred, and make a complete
and detailed inventory of them. For a while Selifan listened in silence; then
he left the room, and instructed Petrushka to help the barin to undress. As it
happened, Chichikov’s boots had no sooner been removed than he managed
to perform the rest of his toilet without assistance, to roll on to the bed
(which creaked terribly as he did so), and to sink into a sleep in every way
worthy of a landowner of Kherson. Meanwhile Petrushka had taken his
master’s coat and trousers of bilberry-coloured check into the corridor;
where, spreading them over a clothes’ horse, he started to flick and to brush
them, and to fill the whole corridor with dust. Just as he was about to
replace them in his master’s room he happened to glance over the railing of
the gallery, and saw Selifan returning from the stable. Glances were
exchanged, and in an instant the pair had arrived at an instinctive
understanding—an understanding to the effect that the barin was sound
asleep, and that therefore one might consider one’s own pleasure a little.
Accordingly Petrushka proceeded to restore the coat and trousers to their
appointed places, and then descended the stairs; whereafter he and Selifan

left the house together. Not a word passed between them as to the object of
their expedition. On the contrary, they talked solely of extraneous subjects.
Yet their walk did not take them far; it took them only to the other side of
the street, and thence into an establishment which immediately confronted
the inn. Entering a mean, dirty courtyard covered with glass, they passed
thence into a cellar where a number of customers were seated around small
wooden tables. What thereafter was done by Selifan and Petrushka God
alone knows. At all events, within an hour’s time they issued, arm in arm,
and in profound silence, yet remaining markedly assiduous to one another,
and ever ready to help one another around an awkward corner. Still linked
together—never once releasing their mutual hold—they spent the next
quarter of an hour in attempting to negotiate the stairs of the inn; but at
length even that ascent had been mastered, and they proceeded further on
their way. Halting before his mean little pallet, Petrushka stood awhile in
thought. His difficulty was how best to assume a recumbent position.
Eventually he lay down on his face, with his legs trailing over the floor;
after which Selifan also stretched himself upon the pallet, with his head
resting upon Petrushka’s stomach, and his mind wholly oblivious of the fact
that he ought not to have been sleeping there at all, but in the servant’s
quarters, or in the stable beside his horses. Scarcely a moment had passed
before the pair were plunged in slumber and emitting the most raucous
snores; to which their master (next door) responded with snores of a
whistling and nasal order. Indeed, before long every one in the inn had
followed their soothing example, and the hostelry lay plunged in complete
restfulness. Only in the window of the room of the newly-arrived lieutenant
from Riazan did a light remain burning. Evidently he was a devotee of
boots, for he had purchased four pairs, and was now trying on a fifth.
Several times he approached the bed with a view to taking off the boots and
retiring to rest; but each time he failed, for the reason that the boots were so
alluring in their make that he had no choice but to lift up first one foot, and
then the other, for the purpose of scanning their elegant welts.

CHAPTER VIII

It was not long before Chichikov’s purchases had become the talk of the
town; and various were the opinions expressed as to whether or not it was
expedient to procure peasants for transferment. Indeed such was the interest
taken by certain citizens in the matter that they advised the purchaser to
provide himself and his convoy with an escort, in order to ensure their safe
arrival at the appointed destination; but though Chichikov thanked the
donors of this advice for the same, and declared that he should be very glad,
in case of need, to avail himself of it, he declared also that there was no real
need for an escort, seeing that the peasants whom he had purchased were
exceptionally peace-loving folk, and that, being themselves consenting
parties to the transferment, they would undoubtedly prove in every way
tractable.
One particularly good result of this advertisement of his scheme was that
he came to rank as neither more nor less than a millionaire. Consequently,
much as the inhabitants had liked our hero in the first instance (as seen in
Chapter I.), they now liked him more than ever. As a matter of fact, they
were citizens of an exceptionally quiet, good-natured, easy-going
disposition; and some of them were even well-educated. For instance, the
President of the Local Council could recite the whole of Zhukovski’s
LUDMILLA by heart, and give such an impressive rendering of the passage
“The pine forest was asleep and the valley at rest” (as well as of the
exclamation “Phew!”) that one felt, as he did so, that the pine forest and the
valley really WERE as he described them. The effect was also further
heightened by the manner in which, at such moments, he assumed the most
portentous frown. For his part, the Postmaster went in more for philosophy,
and diligently perused such works as Young’s Night Thoughts, and
Eckharthausen’s A Key to the Mysteries of Nature; of which latter work he
would make copious extracts, though no one had the slightest notion what
they referred to. For the rest, he was a witty, florid little individual, and
much addicted to a practice of what he called “embellishing” whatsoever he
had to say—a feat which he performed with the aid of such by-the-way
phrases as “my dear sir,” “my good So-and-So,” “you know,” “you
understand,” “you may imagine,” “relatively speaking,” “for instance,” and
“et cetera”; of which phrases he would add sackfuls to his speech. He could
also “embellish” his words by the simple expedient of half-closing, half-
winking one eye; which trick communicated to some of his satirical
utterances quite a mordant effect. Nor were his colleagues a wit inferior to

him in enlightenment. For instance, one of them made a regular practice of
reading Karamzin, another of conning the Moscow Gazette, and a third of
never looking at a book at all. Likewise, although they were the sort of men
to whom, in their more intimate movements, their wives would very
naturally address such nicknames as “Toby Jug,” “Marmot,” “Fatty,” “Pot
Belly,” “Smutty,” “Kiki,” and “Buzz-Buzz,” they were men also of good
heart, and very ready to extend their hospitality and their friendship when
once a guest had eaten of their bread and salt, or spent an evening in their
company. Particularly, therefore, did Chichikov earn these good folk’s
approval with his taking methods and qualities—so much so that the
expression of that approval bid fair to make it difficult for him to quit the
town, seeing that, wherever he went, the one phrase dinned into his ears
was “Stay another week with us, Paul Ivanovitch.” In short, he ceased to be
a free agent. But incomparably more striking was the impression (a matter
for unbounded surprise!) which he produced upon the ladies. Properly to
explain this phenomenon I should need to say a great deal about the ladies
themselves, and to describe in the most vivid of colours their social
intercourse and spiritual qualities. Yet this would be a difficult thing for me
to do, since, on the one hand, I should be hampered by my boundless
respect for the womenfolk of all Civil Service officials, and, on the other
hand—well, simply by the innate arduousness of the task. The ladies of N.
were—But no, I cannot do it; my heart has already failed me. Come, come!
The ladies of N. were distinguished for—But it is of no use; somehow my
pen seems to refuse to move over the paper—it seems to be weighted as
with a plummet of lead. Very well. That being so, I will merely say a word
or two concerning the most prominent tints on the feminine palette of N.—
merely a word or two concerning the outward appearance of its ladies, and
a word or two concerning their more superficial characteristics. The ladies
of N. were pre-eminently what is known as “presentable.” Indeed, in that
respect they might have served as a model to the ladies of many another
town. That is to say, in whatever pertained to “tone,” etiquette, the
intricacies of decorum, and strict observance of the prevailing mode, they
surpassed even the ladies of Moscow and St. Petersburg, seeing that they
dressed with taste, drove about in carriages in the latest fashions, and never
went out without the escort of a footman in gold-laced livery. Again, they
looked upon a visiting card—even upon a make-shift affair consisting of an
ace of diamonds or a two of clubs—as a sacred thing; so sacred that on one

occasion two closely related ladies who had also been closely attached
friends were known to fall out with one another over the mere fact of an
omission to return a social call! Yes, in spite of the best efforts of husbands
and kinsfolk to reconcile the antagonists, it became clear that, though all
else in the world might conceivably be possible, never could the hatchet be
buried between ladies who had quarrelled over a neglected visit. Likewise
strenuous scenes used to take place over questions of precedence—scenes
of a kind which had the effect of inspiring husbands to great and knightly
ideas on the subject of protecting the fair. True, never did a duel actually
take place, since all the husbands were officials belonging to the Civil
Service; but at least a given combatant would strive to heap contumely
upon his rival, and, as we all know, that is a resource which may prove even
more effectual than a duel. As regards morality, the ladies of N. were
nothing if not censorious, and would at once be fired with virtuous
indignation when they heard of a case of vice or seduction. Nay, even to
mere frailty they would award the lash without mercy. On the other hand,
should any instance of what they called “third personism” occur among
THEIR OWN circle, it was always kept dark—not a hint of what was going
on being allowed to transpire, and even the wronged husband holding
himself ready, should he meet with, or hear of, the “third person,” to quote,
in a mild and rational manner, the proverb, “Whom concerns it that a friend
should consort with friend?” In addition, I may say that, like most of the
female world of St. Petersburg, the ladies of N. were pre-eminently careful
and refined in their choice of words and phrases. Never did a lady say, “I
blew my nose,” or “I perspired,” or “I spat.” No, it had to be, “I relieved my
nose through the expedient of wiping it with my handkerchief,” and so
forth. Again, to say, “This glass, or this plate, smells badly,” was forbidden.
No, not even a hint to such an effect was to be dropped. Rather, the proper
phrase, in such a case, was “This glass, or this plate, is not behaving very
well,”—or some such formula.
In fact, to refine the Russian tongue the more thoroughly, something like
half the words in it were cut out: which circumstance necessitated very
frequent recourse to the tongue of France, since the same words, if spoken
in French, were another matter altogether, and one could use even blunter
ones than the ones originally objected to.
So much for the ladies of N., provided that one confines one’s
observations to the surface; yet hardly need it be said that, should one

penetrate deeper than that, a great deal more would come to light. At the
same time, it is never a very safe proceeding to peer deeply into the hearts
of ladies; wherefore, restricting ourselves to the foregoing superficialities,
let us proceed further on our way.
Hitherto the ladies had paid Chichikov no particular attention, though
giving him full credit for his gentlemanly and urbane demeanour; but from
the moment that there arose rumours of his being a millionaire other
qualities of his began to be canvassed. Nevertheless, not ALL the ladies
were governed by interested motives, since it is due to the term
“millionaire” rather than to the character of the person who bears it, that the
mere sound of the word exercises upon rascals, upon decent folk, and upon
folk who are neither the one nor the other, an undeniable influence. A
millionaire suffers from the disadvantage of everywhere having to behold
meanness, including the sort of meanness which, though not actually based
upon calculations of self-interest, yet runs after the wealthy man with
smiles, and doffs his hat, and begs for invitations to houses where the
millionaire is known to be going to dine. That a similar inclination to
meanness seized upon the ladies of N. goes without saying; with the result
that many a drawing-room heard it whispered that, if Chichikov was not
exactly a beauty, at least he was sufficiently good-looking to serve for a
husband, though he could have borne to have been a little more rotund and
stout. To that there would be added scornful references to lean husbands,
and hints that they resembled tooth-brushes rather than men—with many
other feminine additions. Also, such crowds of feminine shoppers began to
repair to the Bazaar as almost to constitute a crush, and something like a
procession of carriages ensued, so long grew the rank of vehicles. For their
part, the tradesmen had the joy of seeing highly priced dress materials
which they had bought at fairs, and then been unable to dispose of, now
suddenly become tradeable, and go off with a rush. For instance, on one
occasion a lady appeared at Mass in a bustle which filled the church to an
extent which led the verger on duty to bid the commoner folk withdraw to
the porch, lest the lady’s toilet should be soiled in the crush. Even
Chichikov could not help privately remarking the attention which he
aroused. On one occasion, when he returned to the inn, he found on his
table a note addressed to himself. Whence it had come, and who had
delivered it, he failed to discover, for the waiter declared that the person
who had brought it had omitted to leave the name of the writer. Beginning

abruptly with the words “I MUST write to you,” the letter went on to say
that between a certain pair of souls there existed a bond of sympathy; and
this verity the epistle further confirmed with rows of full stops to the extent
of nearly half a page. Next there followed a few reflections of a correctitude
so remarkable that I have no choice but to quote them. “What, I would ask,
is this life of ours?” inquired the writer. “’Tis nought but a vale of woe. And
what, I would ask, is the world? ’Tis nought but a mob of unthinking
humanity.” Thereafter, incidentally remarking that she had just dropped a
tear to the memory of her dear mother, who had departed this life twenty-
five years ago, the (presumably) lady writer invited Chichikov to come
forth into the wilds, and to leave for ever the city where, penned in noisome
haunts, folk could not even draw their breath. In conclusion, the writer gave
way to unconcealed despair, and wound up with the following verses:
“Two turtle doves to thee, one day,
My dust will show, congealed in death;
And, cooing wearily, they’ll say:
‘In grief and loneliness she drew her closing breath.’”
True, the last line did not scan, but that was a trifle, since the quatrain at
least conformed to the mode then prevalent. Neither signature nor date were
appended to the document, but only a postscript expressing a conjecture
that Chichikov’s own heart would tell him who the writer was, and stating,
in addition, that the said writer would be present at the Governor’s ball on
the following night.
This greatly interested Chichikov. Indeed, there was so much that was
alluring and provocative of curiosity in the anonymous missive that he read
it through a second time, and then a third, and finally said to himself: “I
SHOULD like to know who sent it!” In short, he took the thing seriously,
and spent over an hour in considering the same. At length, muttering a
comment upon the epistle’s efflorescent style, he refolded the document,
and committed it to his dispatch-box in company with a play-bill and an
invitation to a wedding—the latter of which had for the last seven years
reposed in the self-same receptacle and in the self-same position. Shortly
afterwards there arrived a card of invitation to the Governor’s ball already
referred to. In passing, it may be said that such festivities are not infrequent
phenomena in county towns, for the reason that where Governors exist

there must take place balls if from the local gentry there is to be evoked that
respectful affection which is every Governor’s due.
Thenceforth all extraneous thoughts and considerations were laid aside in
favour of preparing for the coming function. Indeed, this conjunction of
exciting and provocative motives led to Chichikov devoting to his toilet an
amount of time never witnessed since the creation of the world. Merely in
the contemplation of his features in the mirror, as he tried to communicate
to them a succession of varying expressions, was an hour spent. First of all
he strove to make his features assume an air of dignity and importance, and
then an air of humble, but faintly satirical, respect, and then an air of respect
guiltless of any alloy whatsoever. Next, he practised performing a series of
bows to his reflection, accompanied with certain murmurs intended to bear
a resemblance to a French phrase (though Chichikov knew not a single
word of the Gallic tongue). Lastly came the performing of a series of what I
might call “agreeable surprises,” in the shape of twitchings of the brow and
lips and certain motions of the tongue. In short, he did all that a man is apt
to do when he is not only alone, but also certain that he is handsome and
that no one is regarding him through a chink. Finally he tapped himself
lightly on the chin, and said, “Ah, good old face!” In the same way, when
he started to dress himself for the ceremony, the level of his high spirits
remained unimpaired throughout the process. That is to say, while adjusting
his braces and tying his tie, he shuffled his feet in what was not exactly a
dance, but might be called the entr’acte of a dance: which performance had
the not very serious result of setting a wardrobe a-rattle, and causing a
brush to slide from the table to the floor.
Later, his entry into the ballroom produced an extraordinary effect. Every
one present came forward to meet him, some with cards in their hands, and
one man even breaking off a conversation at the most interesting point—
namely, the point that “the Inferior Land Court must be made responsible
for everything.” Yes, in spite of the responsibility of the Inferior Land
Court, the speaker cast all thoughts of it to the winds as he hurried to greet
our hero. From every side resounded acclamations of welcome, and
Chichikov felt himself engulfed in a sea of embraces. Thus, scarcely had he
extricated himself from the arms of the President of the Local Council when
he found himself just as firmly clasped in the arms of the Chief of Police,
who, in turn, surrendered him to the Inspector of the Medical Department,
who, in turn, handed him over to the Commissioner of Taxes, who, again,

committed him to the charge of the Town Architect. Even the Governor,
who hitherto had been standing among his womenfolk with a box of sweets
in one hand and a lap-dog in the other, now threw down both sweets and
lap-dog (the lap-dog giving vent to a yelp as he did so) and added his
greeting to those of the rest of the company. Indeed, not a face was there to
be seen on which ecstatic delight—or, at all events, the reflection of other
people’s ecstatic delight—was not painted. The same expression may be
discerned on the faces of subordinate officials when, the newly arrived
Director having made his inspection, the said officials are beginning to get
over their first sense of awe on perceiving that he has found much to
commend, and that he can even go so far as to jest and utter a few words of
smiling approval. Thereupon every tchinovnik responds with a smile of
double strength, and those who (it may be) have not heard a single word of
the Director’s speech smile out of sympathy with the rest, and even the
gendarme who is posted at the distant door—a man, perhaps, who has never
before compassed a smile, but is more accustomed to dealing out blows to
the populace—summons up a kind of grin, even though the grin resembles
the grimace of a man who is about to sneeze after inadvertently taking an
over-large pinch of snuff. To all and sundry Chichikov responded with a
bow, and felt extraordinarily at his ease as he did so. To right and left did he
incline his head in the sidelong, yet unconstrained, manner that was his
wont and never failed to charm the beholder. As for the ladies, they
clustered around him in a shining bevy that was redolent of every species of
perfume—of roses, of spring violets, and of mignonette; so much so that
instinctively Chichikov raised his nose to snuff the air. Likewise the ladies’
dresses displayed an endless profusion of taste and variety; and though the
majority of their wearers evinced a tendency to embonpoint, those wearers
knew how to call upon art for the concealment of the fact. Confronting
them, Chichikov thought to himself: “Which of these beauties is the writer
of the letter?” Then again he snuffed the air. When the ladies had, to a
certain extent, returned to their seats, he resumed his attempts to discern
(from glances and expressions) which of them could possibly be the
unknown authoress. Yet, though those glances and expressions were too
subtle, too insufficiently open, the difficulty in no way diminished his high
spirits. Easily and gracefully did he exchange agreeable bandinage with one
lady, and then approach another one with the short, mincing steps usually
affected by young-old dandies who are fluttering around the fair. As he

turned, not without dexterity, to right and left, he kept one leg slightly
dragging behind the other, like a short tail or comma. This trick the ladies
particularly admired. In short, they not only discovered in him a host of
recommendations and attractions, but also began to see in his face a sort of
grand, Mars-like, military expression—a thing which, as we know, never
fails to please the feminine eye. Certain of the ladies even took to bickering
over him, and, on perceiving that he spent most of his time standing near
the door, some of their number hastened to occupy chairs nearer to his post
of vantage. In fact, when a certain dame chanced to have the good fortune
to anticipate a hated rival in the race there very nearly ensued a most
lamentable scene—which, to many of those who had been desirous of doing
exactly the same thing, seemed a peculiarly horrible instance of brazen-
faced audacity.
So deeply did Chichikov become plunged in conversation with his fair
pursuers—or rather, so deeply did those fair pursuers enmesh him in the
toils of small talk (which they accomplished through the expedient of
asking him endless subtle riddles which brought the sweat to his brow in his
attempts to guess them)—that he forgot the claims of courtesy which
required him first of all to greet his hostess. In fact, he remembered those
claims only on hearing the Governor’s wife herself addressing him. She had
been standing before him for several minutes, and now greeted him with
suave expressement and the words, “So HERE you are, Paul Ivanovitch!”
But what she said next I am not in a position to report, for she spoke in the
ultra-refined tone and vein wherein ladies and gentlemen customarily
express themselves in high-class novels which have been written by experts
more qualified than I am to describe salons, and able to boast of some
acquaintance with good society. In effect, what the Governor’s wife said
was that she hoped—she greatly hoped—that Monsieur Chichikov’s heart
still contained a corner—even the smallest possible corner—for those
whom he had so cruelly forgotten. Upon that Chichikov turned to her, and
was on the point of returning a reply at least no worse than that which
would have been returned, under similar circumstances, by the hero of a
fashionable novelette, when he stopped short, as though thunderstruck.
Before him there was standing not only Madame, but also a young girl
whom she was holding by the hand. The golden hair, the fine-drawn,
delicate contours, the face with its bewitching oval—a face which might
have served as a model for the countenance of the Madonna, since it was of

a type rarely to be met with in Russia, where nearly everything, from plains
to human feet, is, rather, on the gigantic scale; these features, I say, were
those of the identical maiden whom Chichikov had encountered on the road
when he had been fleeing from Nozdrev’s. His emotion was such that he
could not formulate a single intelligible syllable; he could merely murmur
the devil only knows what, though certainly nothing of the kind which
would have risen to the lips of the hero of a fashionable novel.
“I think that you have not met my daughter before?” said Madame. “She
is just fresh from school.”
He replied that he HAD had the happiness of meeting Mademoiselle
before, and under rather unexpected circumstances; but on his trying to say
something further his tongue completely failed him. The Governor’s wife
added a word or two, and then carried off her daughter to speak to some of
the other guests.
Chichikov stood rooted to the spot, like a man who, after issuing into the
street for a pleasant walk, has suddenly come to a halt on remembering that
something has been left behind him. In a moment, as he struggles to recall
what that something is, the mien of careless expectancy disappears from his
face, and he no longer sees a single person or a single object in his vicinity.
In the same way did Chichikov suddenly become oblivious to the scene
around him. Yet all the while the melodious tongues of ladies were plying
him with multitudinous hints and questions—hints and questions inspired
with a desire to captivate. “Might we poor cumberers of the ground make so
bold as to ask you what you are thinking of?” “Pray tell us where lie the
happy regions in which your thoughts are wandering?” “Might we be
informed of the name of her who has plunged you into this sweet
abandonment of meditation?”—such were the phrases thrown at him. But to
everything he turned a dead ear, and the phrases in question might as well
have been stones dropped into a pool. Indeed, his rudeness soon reached the
pitch of his walking away altogether, in order that he might go and
reconnoitre wither the Governor’s wife and daughter had retreated. But the
ladies were not going to let him off so easily. Every one of them had made
up her mind to use upon him her every weapon, and to exhibit whatsoever
might chance to constitute her best point. Yet the ladies’ wiles proved
useless, for Chichikov paid not the smallest attention to them, even when
the dancing had begun, but kept raising himself on tiptoe to peer over

people’s heads and ascertain in which direction the bewitching maiden with
the golden hair had gone. Also, when seated, he continued to peep between
his neighbours’ backs and shoulders, until at last he discovered her sitting
beside her mother, who was wearing a sort of Oriental turban and feather.
Upon that one would have thought that his purpose was to carry the position
by storm; for, whether moved by the influence of spring, or whether moved
by a push from behind, he pressed forward with such desperate resolution
that his elbow caused the Commissioner of Taxes to stagger on his feet, and
would have caused him to lose his balance altogether but for the supporting
row of guests in the rear. Likewise the Postmaster was made to give ground;
whereupon he turned and eyed Chichikov with mingled astonishment and
subtle irony. But Chichikov never even noticed him; he saw in the distance
only the golden-haired beauty. At that moment she was drawing on a long
glove and, doubtless, pining to be flying over the dancing-floor, where, with
clicking heels, four couples had now begun to thread the mazes of the
mazurka. In particular was a military staff-captain working body and soul
and arms and legs to compass such a series of steps as were never before
performed, even in a dream. However, Chichikov slipped past the mazurka
dancers, and, almost treading on their heels, made his way towards the spot
where Madame and her daughter were seated. Yet he approached them with
great diffidence and none of his late mincing and prancing. Nay, he even
faltered as he walked; his every movement had about it an air of
awkwardness.
It is difficult to say whether or not the feeling which had awakened in our
hero’s breast was the feeling of love; for it is problematical whether or not
men who are neither stout nor thin are capable of any such sentiment.
Nevertheless, something strange, something which he could not altogether
explain, had come upon him. It seemed as though the ball, with its talk and
its clatter, had suddenly become a thing remote—that the orchestra had
withdrawn behind a hill, and the scene grown misty, like the carelessly
painted-in background of a picture. And from that misty void there could be
seen glimmering only the delicate outlines of the bewitching maiden.
Somehow her exquisite shape reminded him of an ivory toy, in such fair,
white, transparent relief did it stand out against the dull blur of the
surrounding throng.
Herein we see a phenomenon not infrequently observed—the
phenomenon of the Chichikovs of this world becoming temporarily poets.

At all events, for a moment or two our Chichikov felt that he was a young
man again, if not exactly a military officer. On perceiving an empty chair
beside the mother and daughter, he hastened to occupy it, and though
conversation at first hung fire, things gradually improved, and he acquired
more confidence.
At this point I must reluctantly deviate to say that men of weight and
high office are always a trifle ponderous when conversing with ladies.
Young lieutenants—or, at all events, officers not above the rank of captain
—are far more successful at the game. How they contrive to be so God only
knows. Let them but make the most inane of remarks, and at once the
maiden by their side will be rocking with laughter; whereas, should a State
Councillor enter into conversation with a damsel, and remark that the
Russian Empire is one of vast extent, or utter a compliment which he has
elaborated not without a certain measure of intelligence (however strongly
the said compliment may smack of a book), of a surety the thing will fall
flat. Even a witticism from him will be laughed at far more by him himself
than it will by the lady who may happen to be listening to his remarks.
These comments I have interposed for the purpose of explaining to the
reader why, as our hero conversed, the maiden began to yawn. Blind to this,
however, he continued to relate to her sundry adventures which had befallen
him in different parts of the world. Meanwhile (as need hardly be said) the
rest of the ladies had taken umbrage at his behaviour. One of them
purposely stalked past him to intimate to him the fact, as well as to jostle
the Governor’s daughter, and let the flying end of a scarf flick her face;
while from a lady seated behind the pair came both a whiff of violets and a
very venomous and sarcastic remark. Nevertheless, either he did not hear
the remark or he PRETENDED not to hear it. This was unwise of him,
since it never does to disregard ladies’ opinions. Later—but too late—he
was destined to learn this to his cost.
In short, dissatisfaction began to display itself on every feminine face. No
matter how high Chichikov might stand in society, and no matter how much
he might be a millionaire and include in his expression of countenance an
indefinable element of grandness and martial ardour, there are certain things
which no lady will pardon, whosoever be the person concerned. We know
that at Governor’s balls it is customary for the onlookers to compose verses
at the expense of the dancers; and in this case the verses were directed to

Chichikov’s address. Briefly, the prevailing dissatisfaction grew until a tacit
edict of proscription had been issued against both him and the poor young
maiden.
But an even more unpleasant surprise was in store for our hero; for whilst
the young lady was still yawning as Chichikov recounted to her certain of
his past adventures and also touched lightly upon the subject of Greek
philosophy, there appeared from an adjoining room the figure of Nozdrev.
Whether he had come from the buffet, or whether he had issued from a little
green retreat where a game more strenuous than whist had been in progress,
or whether he had left the latter resort unaided, or whether he had been
expelled therefrom, is unknown; but at all events when he entered the
ballroom, he was in an elevated condition, and leading by the arm the
Public Prosecutor, whom he seemed to have been dragging about for a long
while past, seeing that the poor man was glancing from side to side as
though seeking a means of putting an end to this personally conducted tour.
Certainly he must have found the situation almost unbearable, in view of
the fact that, after deriving inspiration from two glasses of tea not wholly
undiluted with rum, Nozdrev was engaged in lying unmercifully. On
sighting him in the distance, Chichikov at once decided to sacrifice himself.
That is to say, he decided to vacate his present enviable position and make
off with all possible speed, since he could see that an encounter with the
newcomer would do him no good. Unfortunately at that moment the
Governor buttonholed him with a request that he would come and act as
arbiter between him (the Governor) and two ladies—the subject of dispute
being the question as to whether or not woman’s love is lasting.
Simultaneously Nozdrev descried our hero and bore down upon him.
“Ah, my fine landowner of Kherson!” he cried with a smile which set his
fresh, spring-rose-pink cheeks a-quiver. “Have you been doing much trade
in departed souls lately?” With that he turned to the Governor. “I suppose
your Excellency knows that this man traffics in dead peasants?” he bawled.
“Look here, Chichikov. I tell you in the most friendly way possible that
every one here likes you—yes, including even the Governor. Nevertheless,
had I my way, I would hang you! Yes, by God I would!”
Chichikov’s discomfiture was complete.
“And, would you believe it, your Excellency,” went on Nozdrev, “but this
fellow actually said to me, ‘Sell me your dead souls!’ Why, I laughed till I

nearly became as dead as the souls. And, behold, no sooner do I arrive here
than I am told that he has bought three million roubles’ worth of peasants
for transferment! For transferment, indeed! And he wanted to bargain with
me for my DEAD ones! Look here, Chichikov. You are a swine! Yes, by
God, you are an utter swine! Is not that so, your Excellency? Is not that so,
friend Prokurator 34?”
But both his Excellency, the Public Prosecutor, and Chichikov were too
taken aback to reply. The half-tipsy Nozdrev, without noticing them,
continued his harangue as before.
“Ah, my fine sir!” he cried. “THIS time I don’t mean to let you go. No,
not until I have learnt what all this purchasing of dead peasants means.
Look here. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Yes, I say that—I who am
one of your best friends.” Here he turned to the Governor again. “Your
Excellency,” he continued, “you would never believe what inseperables this
man and I have been. Indeed, if you had stood there and said to me,
‘Nozdrev, tell me on your honour which of the two you love best—your
father or Chichikov?’ I should have replied, ‘Chichikov, by God!’” With
that he tackled our hero again, “Come, come, my friend!” he urged. “Let me
imprint upon your cheeks a baiser or two. You will excuse me if I kiss him,
will you not, your Excellency? No, do not resist me, Chichikov, but allow
me to imprint at least one baiser upon your lily-white cheek.” And in his
efforts to force upon Chichikov what he termed his “baisers” he came near
to measuring his length upon the floor.
Every one now edged away, and turned a deaf ear to his further
babblings; but his words on the subject of the purchase of dead souls had
none the less been uttered at the top of his voice, and been accompanied
with such uproarious laughter that the curiosity even of those who had
happened to be sitting or standing in the remoter corners of the room had
been aroused. So strange and novel seemed the idea that the company stood
with faces expressive of nothing but a dumb, dull wonder. Only some of the
ladies (as Chichikov did not fail to remark) exchanged meaning, ill-natured
winks and a series of sarcastic smiles: which circumstance still further
increased his confusion. That Nozdrev was a notorious liar every one, of
course, knew, and that he should have given vent to an idiotic outburst of
this sort had surprised no one; but a dead soul—well, what was one to make
of Nozdrev’s reference to such a commodity?

Naturally this unseemly contretemps had greatly upset our hero; for,
however foolish be a madman’s words, they may yet prove sufficient to sow
doubt in the minds of saner individuals. He felt much as does a man who,
shod with well-polished boots, has just stepped into a dirty, stinking puddle.
He tried to put away from him the occurrence, and to expand, and to enjoy
himself once more. Nay, he even took a hand at whist. But all was of no
avail—matters kept going as awry as a badly-bent hoop. Twice he
blundered in his play, and the President of the Council was at a loss to
understand how his friend, Paul Ivanovitch, lately so good and so
circumspect a player, could perpetrate such a mauvais pas as to throw away
a particular king of spades which the President has been “trusting” as (to
quote his own expression) “he would have trusted God.” At supper, too,
matters felt uncomfortable, even though the society at Chichikov’s table
was exceedingly agreeable and Nozdrev had been removed, owing to the
fact that the ladies had found his conduct too scandalous to be borne, now
that the delinquent had taken to seating himself on the floor and plucking at
the skirts of passing lady dancers. As I say, therefore, Chichikov found the
situation not a little awkward, and eventually put an end to it by leaving the
supper room before the meal was over, and long before the hour when
usually he returned to the inn.
In his little room, with its door of communication blocked with a
wardrobe, his frame of mind remained as uncomfortable as the chair in
which he was seated. His heart ached with a dull, unpleasant sensation, with
a sort of oppressive emptiness.
“The devil take those who first invented balls!” was his reflection. “Who
derives any real pleasure from them? In this province there exist want and
scarcity everywhere: yet folk go in for balls! How absurd, too, were those
overdressed women! One of them must have had a thousand roubles on her
back, and all acquired at the expense of the overtaxed peasant, or, worse
still, at that of the conscience of her neighbour. Yes, we all know why bribes
are accepted, and why men become crooked in soul. It is all done to provide
wives—yes, may the pit swallow them up!—with fal-lals. And for what
purpose? That some woman may not have to reproach her husband with the
fact that, say, the Postmaster’s wife is wearing a better dress than she is—a
dress which has cost a thousand roubles! ‘Balls and gaiety, balls and gaiety’
is the constant cry. Yet what folly balls are! They do not consort with the
Russian spirit and genius, and the devil only knows why we have them. A

grown, middle-aged man—a man dressed in black, and looking as stiff as a
poker—suddenly takes the floor and begins shuffling his feet about, while
another man, even though conversing with a companion on important
business, will, the while, keep capering to right and left like a billy-goat!
Mimicry, sheer mimicry! The fact that the Frenchman is at forty precisely
what he was at fifteen leads us to imagine that we too, forsooth, ought to be
the same. No; a ball leaves one feeling that one has done a wrong thing—so
much so that one does not care even to think of it. It also leaves one’s head
perfectly empty, even as does the exertion of talking to a man of the world.
A man of that kind chatters away, and touches lightly upon every
conceivable subject, and talks in smooth, fluent phrases which he has culled
from books without grazing their substance; whereas go and have a chat
with a tradesman who knows at least ONE thing thoroughly, and through
the medium of experience, and see whether his conversation will not be
worth more than the prattle of a thousand chatterboxes. For what good does
one get out of balls? Suppose that a competent writer were to describe such
a scene exactly as it stands? Why, even in a book it would seem senseless,
even as it certainly is in life. Are, therefore, such functions right or wrong?
One would answer that the devil alone knows, and then spit and close the
book.”
Such were the unfavourable comments which Chichikov passed upon
balls in general. With it all, however, there went a second source of
dissatisfaction. That is to say, his principal grudge was not so much against
balls as against the fact that at this particular one he had been exposed, he
had been made to disclose the circumstance that he had been playing a
strange, an ambiguous part. Of course, when he reviewed the contretemps
in the light of pure reason, he could not but see that it mattered nothing, and
that a few rude words were of no account now that the chief point had been
attained; yet man is an odd creature, and Chichikov actually felt pained by
the cold-shouldering administered to him by persons for whom he had not
an atom of respect, and whose vanity and love of display he had only that
moment been censuring. Still more, on viewing the matter clearly, he felt
vexed to think that he himself had been so largely the cause of the
catastrophe.
Yet he was not angry with HIMSELF—of that you may be sure, seeing
that all of us have a slight weakness for sparing our own faults, and always
do our best to find some fellow-creature upon whom to vent our displeasure

—whether that fellow-creature be a servant, a subordinate official, or a
wife. In the same way Chichikov sought a scapegoat upon whose shoulders
he could lay the blame for all that had annoyed him. He found one in
Nozdrev, and you may be sure that the scapegoat in question received a
good drubbing from every side, even as an experienced captain or chief of
police will give a knavish starosta or postboy a rating not only in the terms
become classical, but also in such terms as the said captain or chief of
police may invent for himself. In short, Nozdrev’s whole lineage was
passed in review; and many of its members in the ascending line fared
badly in the process.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the town there was in progress an event
which was destined to augment still further the unpleasantness of our hero’s
position. That is to say, through the outlying streets and alleys of the town
there was clattering a vehicle to which it would be difficult precisely to
assign a name, seeing that, though it was of a species peculiar to itself, it
most nearly resembled a large, rickety water melon on wheels. Eventually
this monstrosity drew up at the gates of a house where the archpriest of one
of the churches resided, and from its doors there leapt a damsel clad in a
jerkin and wearing a scarf over her head. For a while she thumped the gates
so vigorously as to set all the dogs barking; then the gates stiffly opened,
and admitted this unwieldy phenomenon of the road. Lastly, the barinia
herself alighted, and stood revealed as Madame Korobotchka, widow of a
Collegiate Secretary! The reason of her sudden arrival was that she had felt
so uneasy about the possible outcome of Chichikov’s whim, that during the
three nights following his departure she had been unable to sleep a wink;
whereafter, in spite of the fact that her horses were not shod, she had set off
for the town, in order to learn at first hand how the dead souls were faring,
and whether (which might God forfend!) she had not sold them at
something like a third of their true value. The consequences of her venture
the reader will learn from a conversation between two ladies. We will
reserve it for the ensuing chapter.

CHAPTER IX

Next morning, before the usual hour for paying calls, there tripped from
the portals of an orange-coloured wooden house with an attic storey and a
row of blue pillars a lady in an elegant plaid cloak. With her came a
footman in a many-caped greatcoat and a polished top hat with a gold band.
Hastily, but gracefully, the lady ascended the steps let down from a koliaska
which was standing before the entrance, and as soon as she had done so the
footman shut her in, put up the steps again, and, catching hold of the strap
behind the vehicle, shouted to the coachman, “Right away!” The reason of
all this was that the lady was the possessor of a piece of intelligence that she
was burning to communicate to a fellow-creature. Every moment she kept
looking out of the carriage window, and perceiving, with almost speechless
vexation, that, as yet, she was but half-way on her journey. The fronts of the
houses appeared to her longer than usual, and in particular did the front of
the white stone hospital, with its rows of narrow windows, seem
interminable to a degree which at length forced her to ejaculate: “Oh, the
cursed building! Positively there is no end to it!” Also, she twice adjured
the coachman with the words, “Go quicker, Andrusha! You are a horribly
long time over the journey this morning.” But at length the goal was
reached, and the koliaska stopped before a one-storied wooden mansion,
dark grey in colour, and having white carvings over the windows, a tall
wooden fence and narrow garden in front of the latter, and a few meagre
trees looming white with an incongruous coating of road dust. In the
windows of the building were also a few flower pots and a parrot that kept
alternately dancing on the floor of its cage and hanging on to the ring of the
same with its beak. Also, in the sunshine before the door two pet dogs were
sleeping. Here there lived the lady’s bosom friend. As soon as the bosom
friend in question learnt of the newcomer’s arrival, she ran down into the
hall, and the two ladies kissed and embraced one another. Then they
adjourned to the drawing-room.
“How glad I am to see you!” said the bosom friend. “When I heard some
one arriving I wondered who could possibly be calling so early. Parasha
declared that it must be the Vice-Governor’s wife, so, as I did not want to be
bored with her, I gave orders that I was to be reported ‘not at home.’”
For her part, the guest would have liked to have proceeded to business by
communicating her tidings, but a sudden exclamation from the hostess
imparted (temporarily) a new direction to the conversation.

“What a pretty chintz!” she cried, gazing at the other’s gown.
“Yes, it IS pretty,” agreed the visitor. “On the other hand, Praskovia
Thedorovna thinks that—”
In other words, the ladies proceeded to indulge in a conversation on the
subject of dress; and only after this had lasted for a considerable while did
the visitor let fall a remark which led her entertainer to inquire:
“And how is the universal charmer?”
“My God!” replied the other. “There has been SUCH a business! In fact,
do you know why I am here at all?” And the visitor’s breathing became
more hurried, and further words seemed to be hovering between her lips
like hawks preparing to stoop upon their prey. Only a person of the
unhumanity of a “true friend” would have had the heart to interrupt her; but
the hostess was just such a friend, and at once interposed with:
“I wonder how any one can see anything in the man to praise or to
admire. For my own part, I think—and I would say the same thing straight
to his face—that he is a perfect rascal.”
“Yes, but do listen to what I have got to tell you.”
“Oh, I know that some people think him handsome,” continued the
hostess, unmoved; “but I say that he is nothing of the kind—that, in
particular, his nose is perfectly odious.”
“Yes, but let me finish what I was saying.” The guest’s tone was almost
piteous in its appeal.
“What is it, then?”
“You cannot imagine my state of mind! You see, this morning I received
a visit from Father Cyril’s wife—the Archpriest’s wife—you know her,
don’t you? Well, whom do you suppose that fine gentleman visitor of ours
has turned out to be?”
“The man who has built the Archpriest a poultry-run?”
“Oh dear no! Had that been all, it would have been nothing. No. Listen to
what Father Cyril’s wife had to tell me. She said that, last night, a lady
landowner named Madame Korobotchka arrived at the Archpriest’s house
—arrived all pale and trembling—and told her, oh, such things! They sound
like a piece out of a book. That is to say, at dead of night, just when every
one had retired to rest, there came the most dreadful knocking imaginable,

and some one screamed out, ‘Open the gates, or we will break them down!’
Just think! After this, how any one can say that the man is charming I
cannot imagine.”
“Well, what of Madame Korobotchka? Is she a young woman or good
looking?”
“Oh dear no! Quite an old woman.”
“Splendid indeed! So he is actually engaged to a person like that? One
may heartily commend the taste of our ladies for having fallen in love with
him!”
“Nevertheless, it is not as you suppose. Think, now! Armed with
weapons from head to foot, he called upon this old woman, and said: ‘Sell
me any souls of yours which have lately died.’ Of course, Madame
Korobotchka answered, reasonably enough: ‘I cannot sell you those souls,
seeing that they have departed this world;’ but he replied: ‘No, no! They are
NOT dead. ’Tis I who tell you that—I who ought to know the truth of the
matter. I swear that they are still alive.’ In short, he made such a scene that
the whole village came running to the house, and children screamed, and
men shouted, and no one could tell what it was all about. The affair seemed
to me so horrible, so utterly horrible, that I trembled beyond belief as I
listened to the story. ‘My dearest madam,’ said my maid, Mashka, ‘pray
look at yourself in the mirror, and see how white you are.’ ‘But I have no
time for that,’ I replied, ‘as I must be off to tell my friend, Anna
Grigorievna, the news.’ Nor did I lose a moment in ordering the koliaska.
Yet when my coachman, Andrusha, asked me for directions I could not get a
word out—I just stood staring at him like a fool, until I thought he must
think me mad. Oh, Anna Grigorievna, if you but knew how upset I am!”
“What a strange affair!” commented the hostess. “What on earth can the
man have meant by ‘dead souls’? I confess that the words pass my
understanding. Curiously enough, this is the second time I have heard speak
of those souls. True, my husband avers that Nozdrev was lying; yet in his
lies there seems to have been a grain of truth.”
“Well, just think of my state when I heard all this! ‘And now,’ apparently
said Korobotchka to the Archpriest’s wife, ‘I am altogether at a loss what to
do, for, throwing me fifteen roubles, the man forced me to sign a worthless
paper—yes, me, an inexperienced, defenceless widow who knows nothing

of business.’ That such things should happen! TRY and imagine my
feelings!”
“In my opinion, there is in this more than the dead souls which meet the
eye.”
“I think so too,” agreed the other. As a matter of fact, her friend’s remark
had struck her with complete surprise, as well as filled her with curiosity to
know what the word “more” might possibly signify. In fact, she felt driven
to inquire: “What do YOU suppose to be hidden beneath it all?”
“No; tell me what YOU suppose?”
“What I suppose? I am at a loss to conjecture.”
“Yes, but tell me what is in your mind?”
Upon this the visitor had to confess herself nonplussed; for, though
capable of growing hysterical, she was incapable of propounding any
rational theory. Consequently she felt the more that she needed tender
comfort and advice.
“Then THIS is what I think about the dead souls,” said the hostess.
Instantly the guest pricked up her ears (or, rather, they pricked themselves
up) and straightened herself and became, somehow, more modish, and,
despite her not inconsiderable weight, posed herself to look like a piece of
thistledown floating on the breeze.
“The dead souls,” began the hostess.
“Are what, are what?” inquired the guest in great excitement.
“Are, are—”
“Tell me, tell me, for heaven’s sake!”
“They are an invention to conceal something else. The man’s real object
is, is—TO ABDUCT THE GOVERNOR’S DAUGHTER.”
So startling and unexpected was this conclusion that the guest sat reduced
to a state of pale, petrified, genuine amazement.
“My God!” she cried, clapping her hands, “I should NEVER have
guessed it!”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I guessed it as soon as ever you opened your
mouth.”
“So much, then, for educating girls like the Governor’s daughter at
school! Just see what comes of it!”

“Yes, indeed! And they tell me that she says things which I hesitate even
to repeat.”
“Truly it wrings one’s heart to see to what lengths immorality has come.”
“Some of the men have quite lost their heads about her, but for my part I
think her not worth noticing.”
“Of course. And her manners are unbearable. But what puzzles me most
is how a travelled man like Chichikov could come to let himself in for such
an affair. Surely he must have accomplices?”
“Yes; and I should say that one of those accomplices is Nozdrev.”
“Surely not?”
“CERTAINLY I should say so. Why, I have known him even try to sell
his own father! At all events he staked him at cards.”
“Indeed? You interest me. I should never had thought him capable of
such things.”
“I always guessed him to be so.”
The two ladies were still discussing the matter with acumen and success
when there walked into the room the Public Prosecutor—bushy eyebrows,
motionless features, blinking eyes, and all. At once the ladies hastened to
inform him of the events related, adducing therewith full details both as to
the purchase of dead souls and as to the scheme to abduct the Governor’s
daughter; after which they departed in different directions, for the purpose
of raising the rest of the town. For the execution of this undertaking not
more than half an hour was required. So thoroughly did they succeed in
throwing dust in the public’s eyes that for a while every one—more
especially the army of public officials—was placed in the position of a
schoolboy who, while still asleep, has had a bag of pepper thrown in his
face by a party of more early-rising comrades. The questions now to be
debated resolved themselves into two—namely, the question of the dead
souls and the question of the Governor’s daughter. To this end two parties
were formed—the men’s party and the feminine section. The men’s party—
the more absolutely senseless of the two—devoted its attention to the dead
souls: the women’s party occupied itself exclusively with the alleged
abduction of the Governor’s daughter. And here it may be said (to the
ladies’ credit) that the women’s party displayed far more method and
caution than did its rival faction, probably because the function in life of its

members had always been that of managing and administering a household.
With the ladies, therefore, matters soon assumed vivid and definite shape;
they became clearly and irrefutably materialised; they stood stripped of all
doubt and other impedimenta. Said some of the ladies in question,
Chichikov had long been in love with the maiden, and the pair had kept
tryst by the light of the moon, while the Governor would have given his
consent (seeing that Chichikov was as rich as a Jew) but for the obstacle
that Chichikov had deserted a wife already (how the worthy dames came to
know that he was married remains a mystery), and the said deserted wife,
pining with love for her faithless husband, had sent the Governor a letter of
the most touching kind, so that Chichikov, on perceiving that the father and
mother would never give their consent, had decided to abduct the girl. In
other circles the matter was stated in a different way. That is to say, this
section averred that Chichikov did NOT possess a wife, but that, as a man
of subtlety and experience, he had bethought him of obtaining the
daughter’s hand through the expedient of first tackling the mother and
carrying on with her an ardent liaison, and that, thereafter, he had made an
application for the desired hand, but that the mother, fearing to commit a sin
against religion, and feeling in her heart certain gnawings of conscience,
had returned a blank refusal to Chichikov’s request; whereupon Chichikov
had decided to carry out the abduction alleged. To the foregoing, of course,
there became appended various additional proofs and items of evidence, in
proportion as the sensation spread to more remote corners of the town. At
length, with these perfectings, the affair reached the ears of the Governor’s
wife herself. Naturally, as the mother of a family, and as the first lady in the
town, and as a matron who had never before been suspected of things of the
kind, she was highly offended when she heard the stories, and very justly
so: with the result that her poor young daughter, though innocent, had to
endure about as unpleasant a tete-a-tete as ever befell a maiden of sixteen,
while, for his part, the Swiss footman received orders never at any time to
admit Chichikov to the house.
Having done their business with the Governor’s wife, the ladies’ party
descended upon the male section, with a view to influencing it to their own
side by asserting that the dead souls were an invention used solely for the
purpose of diverting suspicion and successfully affecting the abduction.
And, indeed, more than one man was converted, and joined the feminine
camp, in spite of the fact that thereby such seceders incurred strong names

from their late comrades—names such as “old women,” “petticoats,” and
others of a nature peculiarly offensive to the male sex.
Also, however much they might arm themselves and take the field, the
men could not compass such orderliness within their ranks as could the
women. With the former everything was of the antiquated and rough-hewn
and ill-fitting and unsuitable and badly-adapted and inferior kind; their
heads were full of nothing but discord and triviality and confusion and
slovenliness of thought. In brief, they displayed everywhere the male bent,
the rude, ponderous nature which is incapable either of managing a
household or of jumping to a conclusion, as well as remains always
distrustful and lazy and full of constant doubt and everlasting timidity. For
instance, the men’s party declared that the whole story was rubbish—that
the alleged abduction of the Governor’s daughter was the work rather of a
military than of a civilian culprit; that the ladies were lying when they
accused Chichikov of the deed; that a woman was like a money-bag—
whatsoever you put into her she thenceforth retained; that the subject which
really demanded attention was the dead souls, of which the devil only knew
the meaning, but in which there certainly lurked something that was
contrary to good order and discipline. One reason why the men’s party was
so certain that the dead souls connoted something contrary to good order
and discipline, was that there had just been appointed to the province a new
Governor-General—an event which, of course, had thrown the whole army
of provincial tchinovniks into a state of great excitement, seeing that they
knew that before long there would ensue transferments and sentences of
censure, as well as the series of official dinners with which a Governor-
General is accustomed to entertain his subordinates. “Alas,” thought the
army of tchinovniks, “it is probable that, should he learn of the gross reports
at present afloat in our town, he will make such a fuss that we shall never
hear the last of them.” In particular did the Director of the Medical
Department turn pale at the thought that possibly the new Governor-General
would surmise the term “dead folk” to connote patients in the local
hospitals who, for want of proper preventative measures, had died of
sporadic fever. Indeed, might it not be that Chichikov was neither more nor
less than an emissary of the said Governor-General, sent to conduct a secret
inquiry? Accordingly he (the Director of the Medical Department)
communicated this last supposition to the President of the Council, who,
though at first inclined to ejaculate “Rubbish!” suddenly turned pale on

propounding to himself the theory. “What if the souls purchased by
Chichikov should REALLY be dead ones?”—a terrible thought considering
that he, the President, had permitted their transferment to be registered, and
had himself acted as Plushkin’s representative! What if these things should
reach the Governor-General’s ears? He mentioned the matter to one friend
and another, and they, in their turn, went white to the lips, for panic spreads
faster and is even more destructive, than the dreaded black death. Also, to
add to the tchinovniks’ troubles, it so befell that just at this juncture there
came into the local Governor’s hands two documents of great importance.
The first of them contained advices that, according to received evidence and
reports, there was operating in the province a forger of rouble-notes who
had been passing under various aliases and must therefore be sought for
with the utmost diligence; while the second document was a letter from the
Governor of a neighbouring province with regard to a malefactor who had
there evaded apprehension—a letter conveying also a warning that, if in the
province of the town of N. there should appear any suspicious individual
who could produce neither references nor passports, he was to be arrested
forthwith. These two documents left every one thunderstruck, for they
knocked on the head all previous conceptions and theories. Not for a
moment could it be supposed that the former document referred to
Chichikov; yet, as each man pondered the position from his own point of
view, he remembered that no one REALLY knew who Chichikov was; as
also that his vague references to himself had—yes!—included statements
that his career in the service had suffered much to the cause of Truth, and
that he possessed a number of enemies who were seeking his life. This gave
the tchinovniks further food for thought. Perhaps his life really DID stand in
danger? Perhaps he really WAS being sought for by some one? Perhaps he
really HAD done something of the kind above referred to? As a matter of
fact, who was he?—not that it could actually be supposed that he was a
forger of notes, still less a brigand, seeing that his exterior was respectable
in the highest degree. Yet who was he? At length the tchinovniks decided to
make enquiries among those of whom he had purchased souls, in order that
at least it might be learnt what the purchases had consisted of, and what
exactly underlay them, and whether, in passing, he had explained to any one
his real intentions, or revealed to any one his identity. In the first instance,
therefore, resort was had to Korobotchka. Yet little was gleaned from that
source—merely a statement that he had bought of her some souls for fifteen

roubles apiece, and also a quantity of feathers, while promising also to buy
some other commodities in the future, seeing that, in particular, he had
entered into a contract with the Treasury for lard, a fact constituting fairly
presumptive proof that the man was a rogue, seeing that just such another
fellow had bought a quantity of feathers, yet had cheated folk all round,
and, in particular, had done the Archpriest out of over a hundred roubles.
Thus the net result of Madame’s cross-examination was to convince the
tchinovniks that she was a garrulous, silly old woman. With regard to
Manilov, he replied that he would answer for Chichikov as he would for
himself, and that he would gladly sacrifice his property in toto if thereby he
could attain even a tithe of the qualities which Paul Ivanovitch possessed.
Finally, he delivered on Chichikov, with acutely-knitted brows, a eulogy
couched in the most charming of terms, and coupled with sundry sentiments
on the subject of friendship and affection in general. True, these remarks
sufficed to indicate the tender impulses of the speaker’s heart, but also they
did nothing to enlighten his examiners concerning the business that was
actually at hand. As for Sobakevitch, that landowner replied that he
considered Chichikov an excellent fellow, as well as that the souls whom he
had sold to his visitor had been in the truest sense of the word alive, but that
he could not answer for anything which might occur in the future, seeing
that any difficulties which might arise in the course of the actual
transferment of souls would not be HIS fault, in view of the fact that God
was lord of all, and that fevers and other mortal complaints were so
numerous in the world, and that instances of whole villages perishing
through the same could be found on record.
Finally, our friends the tchinovniks found themselves compelled to resort
to an expedient which, though not particularly savoury, is not infrequently
employed—namely, the expedient of getting lacqueys quietly to approach
the servants of the person concerning whom information is desired, and to
ascertain from them (the servants) certain details with regard to their
master’s life and antecedents. Yet even from this source very little was
obtained, since Petrushka provided his interrogators merely with a taste of
the smell of his living-room, and Selifan confined his replies to a statement
that the barin had “been in the employment of the State, and also had served
in the Customs.”
In short, the sum total of the results gathered by the tchinovniks was that
they still stood in ignorance of Chichikov’s identity, but that he MUST be

some one; wherefore it was decided to hold a final debate on the subject on
what ought to be done, and who Chichikov could possibly be, and whether
or not he was a man who ought to be apprehended and detained as not
respectable, or whether he was a man who might himself be able to
apprehend and detain THEM as persons lacking in respectability. The
debate in question, it was proposed, should be held at the residence of the
Chief of Police, who is known to our readers as the father and the general
benefactor of the town.

CHAPTER X

On assembling at the residence indicated, the tchinovniks had occasion to
remark that, owing to all these cares and excitements, every one of their
number had grown thinner. Yes, the appointment of a new Governor-
General, coupled with the rumours described and the reception of the two
serious documents above-mentioned, had left manifest traces upon the
features of every one present. More than one frockcoat had come to look
too large for its wearer, and more than one frame had fallen away, including
the frames of the President of the Council, the Director of the Medical
Department, and the Public Prosecutor. Even a certain Semen Ivanovitch,
who, for some reason or another, was never alluded to by his family name,
but who wore on his index finger a ring with which he was accustomed to
dazzle his lady friends, had diminished in bulk. Yet, as always happens at
such junctures, there were also present a score of brazen individuals who
had succeeded in NOT losing their presence of mind, even though they
constituted a mere sprinkling. Of them the Postmaster formed one, since he
was a man of equable temperament who could always say: “WE know you,
Governor-Generals! We have seen three or four of you come and go,
whereas WE have been sitting on the same stools these thirty years.”
Nevertheless a prominent feature of the gathering was the total absence of
what is vulgarly known as “common sense.” In general, we Russians do not
make a good show at representative assemblies, for the reason that, unless
there be in authority a leading spirit to control the rest, the affair always

develops into confusion. Why this should be so one could hardly say, but at
all events a success is scored only by such gatherings as have for their
object dining and festivity—to wit, gatherings at clubs or in German-run
restaurants. However, on the present occasion, the meeting was NOT one of
this kind; it was a meeting convoked of necessity, and likely in view of the
threatened calamity to affect every tchinovnik in the place. Also, in addition
to the great divergency of views expressed thereat, there was visible in all
the speakers an invincible tendency to indecision which led them at one
moment to make assertions, and at the next to contradict the same. But on at
least one point all seemed to agree—namely, that Chichikov’s appearance
and conversation were too respectable for him to be a forger or a disguised
brigand. That is to say, all SEEMED to agree on the point; until a sudden
shout arose from the direction of the Postmaster, who for some time past
had been sitting plunged in thought.
“I can tell you,” he cried, “who Chichikov is!”
“Who, then?” replied the crowd in great excitement.
“He is none other than Captain Kopeikin.”
“And who may Captain Kopeikin be?”
Taking a pinch of snuff (which he did with the lid of his snuff-box half-
open, lest some extraneous person should contrive to insert a not over-clean
finger into the stuff), the Postmaster related the following story 35.
“After fighting in the campaign of 1812, there was sent home, wounded,
a certain Captain Kopeikin—a headstrong, lively blade who, whether on
duty or under arrest, made things lively for everybody. Now, since at Krasni
or at Leipzig (it matters not which) he had lost an arm and a leg, and in
those days no provision was made for wounded soldiers, and he could not
work with his left arm alone, he set out to see his father. Unfortunately his
father could only just support himself, and was forced to tell his son so;
wherefore the Captain decided to go and apply for help in St. Petersburg,
seeing that he had risked his life for his country, and had lost much blood in
its service. You can imagine him arriving in the capital on a baggage
waggon—in the capital which is like no other city in the world! Before him
there lay spread out the whole field of life, like a sort of Arabian Nights—a
picture made up of the Nevski Prospect, Gorokhovaia Street, countless
tapering spires, and a number of bridges apparently supported on nothing—
in fact, a regular second Nineveh. Well, he made shift to hire a lodging, but

found everything so wonderfully furnished with blinds and Persian carpets
and so forth that he saw it would mean throwing away a lot of money. True,
as one walks the streets of St. Petersburg one seems to smell money by the
thousand roubles, but our friend Kopeikin’s bank was limited to a few score
coppers and a little silver—not enough to buy a village with! At length, at
the price of a rouble a day, he obtained a lodging in the sort of tavern where
the daily ration is a bowl of cabbage soup and a crust of bread; and as he
felt that he could not manage to live very long on fare of that kind he asked
folk what he had better do. ‘What you had better do?’ they said. ‘Well the
Government is not here—it is in Paris, and the troops have not yet returned
from the war; but there is a TEMPORARY Commission sitting, and you
had better go and see what IT can do for you.’ ‘All right!’ he said. ‘I will go
and tell the Commission that I have shed my blood, and sacrificed my life,
for my country.’ And he got up early one morning, and shaved himself with
his left hand (since the expense of a barber was not worth while), and set
out, wooden leg and all, to see the President of the Commission. But first he
asked where the President lived, and was told that his house was in
Naberezhnaia Street. And you may be sure that it was no peasant’s hut, with
its glazed windows and great mirrors and statues and lacqueys and brass
door handles! Rather, it was the sort of place which you would enter only
after you had bought a cheap cake of soap and indulged in a two hours’
wash. Also, at the entrance there was posted a grand Swiss footman with a
baton and an embroidered collar—a fellow looking like a fat, over-fed pug
dog. However, friend Kopeikin managed to get himself and his wooden leg
into the reception room, and there squeezed himself away into a corner, for
fear lest he should knock down the gilded china with his elbow. And he
stood waiting in great satisfaction at having arrived before the President had
so much as left his bed and been served with his silver wash-basin.
Nevertheless, it was only when Kopeikin had been waiting four hours that a
breakfast waiter entered to say, ‘The President will soon be here.’ By now
the room was as full of people as a plate is of beans, and when the President
left the breakfast-room he brought with him, oh, such dignity and
refinement, and such an air of the metropolis! First he walked up to one
person, and then up to another, saying: ‘What do YOU want? And what do
YOU want? What can I do for YOU? What is YOUR business?’ And at
length he stopped before Kopeikin, and Kopeikin said to him: ‘I have shed
my blood, and lost both an arm and a leg, for my country, and am unable to

work. Might I therefore dare to ask you for a little help, if the regulations
should permit of it, or for a gratuity, or for a pension, or something of the
kind?’ Then the President looked at him, and saw that one of his legs was
indeed a wooden one, and that an empty right sleeve was pinned to his
uniform. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Come to me again in a few days’ time.’ Upon
this friend Kopeikin felt delighted. ‘NOW I have done my job!’ he thought
to himself; and you may imagine how gaily he trotted along the pavement,
and how he dropped into a tavern for a glass of vodka, and how he ordered
a cutlet and some caper sauce and some other things for luncheon, and how
he called for a bottle of wine, and how he went to the theatre in the evening!
In short, he did himself thoroughly well. Next, he saw in the street a young
English lady, as graceful as a swan, and set off after her on his wooden leg.
‘But no,’ he thought to himself. ‘To the devil with that sort of thing just
now! I will wait until I have drawn my pension. For the present I have spent
enough.’ (And I may tell you that by now he had got through fully half his
money.) Two or three days later he went to see the President of the
Commission again. ‘I should be glad to know,’ he said, ‘whether by now
you can do anything for me in return for my having shed my blood and
suffered sickness and wounds on military service.’ ‘First of all,’ said the
President, ‘I must tell you that nothing can be decided in your case without
the authority of the Supreme Government. Without that sanction we cannot
move in the matter. Surely you see how things stand until the army shall
have returned from the war? All that I can advise you to do is wait for the
Minister to return, and, in the meanwhile, to have patience. Rest assured
that then you will not be overlooked. And if for the moment you have
nothing to live upon, this is the best that I can do for you.’ With that he
handed Kopeikin a trifle until his case should have been decided. However,
that was not what Kopeikin wanted. He had supposed that he would be
given a gratuity of a thousand roubles straight away; whereas, instead of
‘Drink and be merry,’ it was ‘Wait, for the time is not yet.’ Thus, though his
head had been full of soup plates and cutlets and English girls, he now
descended the steps with his ears and his tail down—looking, in fact, like a
poodle over which the cook has poured a bucketful of water. You see, St.
Petersburg life had changed him not a little since first he had got a taste of
it, and, now that the devil only knew how he was going to live, it came all
the harder to him that he should have no more sweets to look forward to.
Remember that a man in the prime of years has an appetite like a wolf; and

as he passed a restaurant he could see a round-faced, holland-shirted, snow-
white aproned fellow of a French chef preparing a dish delicious enough to
make it turn to and eat itself; while, again, as he passed a fruit shop he
could see delicacies looking out of a window for fools to come and buy
them at a hundred roubles apiece. Imagine, therefore, his position! On the
one hand, so to speak, were salmon and water-melons, while on the other
hand was the bitter fare which passed at a tavern for luncheon. ‘Well,’ he
thought to himself, ‘let them do what they like with me at the Commission,
but I intend to go and raise the whole place, and to tell every blessed
functionary there that I have a mind to do as I choose.’ And in truth this
bold impertinence of a man did have the hardihood to return to the
Commission. ‘What do you want?’ said the President. ‘Why are you here
for the third time? You have had your orders given you.’ ‘I daresay I have,’
he retorted, ‘but I am not going to be put off with THEM. I want some
cutlets to eat, and a bottle of French wine, and a chance to go and amuse
myself at the theatre.’ ‘Pardon me,’ said the President. ‘What you really
need (if I may venture to mention it) is a little patience. You have been
given something for food until the Military Committee shall have met, and
then, doubtless, you will receive your proper reward, seeing that it would
not be seemly that a man who has served his country should be left
destitute. On the other hand, if, in the meanwhile, you desire to indulge in
cutlets and theatre-going, please understand that we cannot help you, but
you must make your own resources, and try as best you can to help
yourself.’ You can imagine that this went in at one of Kopeikin’s ears, and
out at the other; that it was like shooting peas at a stone wall. Accordingly
he raised a turmoil which sent the staff flying. One by one, he gave the mob
of secretaries and clerks a real good hammering. ‘You, and you, and you,’
he said, ‘do not even know your duties. You are law-breakers.’ Yes, he trod
every man of them under foot. At length the General himself arrived from
another office, and sounded the alarm. What was to be done with a fellow
like Kopeikin? The President saw that strong measures were imperative.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Since you decline to rest satisfied with what has been
given you, and quietly to await the decision of your case in St. Petersburg, I
must find you a lodging. Here, constable, remove the man to gaol.’ Then a
constable who had been called to the door—a constable three ells in height,
and armed with a carbine—a man well fitted to guard a bank—placed our
friend in a police waggon. ‘Well,’ reflected Kopeikin, ‘at least I shan’t have

to pay my fare for THIS ride. That’s one comfort.’ Again, after he had
ridden a little way, he said to himself: ‘they told me at the Commission to
go and make my own means of enjoying myself. Very good. I’ll do so.’
However, what became of Kopeikin, and whither he went, is known to no
one. He sank, to use the poet’s expression, into the waters of Lethe, and his
doings now lie buried in oblivion. But allow me, gentlemen, to piece
together the further threads of the story. Not two months later there
appeared in the forests of Riazan a band of robbers: and of that band the
chieftain was none other than—”
“Allow me,” put in the Head of the Police Department. “You have said
that Kopeikin had lost an arm and a leg; whereas Chichikov—”
To say anything more was unnecessary. The Postmaster clapped his hand
to his forehead, and publicly called himself a fool, though, later, he tried to
excuse his mistake by saying that in England the science of mechanics had
reached such a pitch that wooden legs were manufactured which would
enable the wearer, on touching a spring, to vanish instantaneously from
sight.
Various other theories were then propounded, among them a theory that
Chichikov was Napoleon, escaped from St. Helena and travelling about the
world in disguise. And if it should be supposed that no such notion could
possibly have been broached, let the reader remember that these events took
place not many years after the French had been driven out of Russia, and
that various prophets had since declared that Napoleon was Antichrist, and
would one day escape from his island prison to exercise universal sway on
earth. Nay, some good folk had even declared the letters of Napoleon’s
name to constitute the Apocalyptic cipher!
As a last resort, the tchinovniks decided to question Nozdrev, since not
only had the latter been the first to mention the dead souls, but also he was
supposed to stand on terms of intimacy with Chichikov. Accordingly the
Chief of Police dispatched a note by the hand of a commissionaire. At the
time Nozdrev was engaged on some very important business—so much so
that he had not left his room for four days, and was receiving his meals
through the window, and no visitors at all. The business referred to
consisted of the marking of several dozen selected cards in such a way as to
permit of his relying upon them as upon his bosom friend. Naturally he did
not like having his retirement invaded, and at first consigned the

commissionaire to the devil; but as soon as he learnt from the note that,
since a novice at cards was to be the guest of the Chief of Police that
evening, a call at the latter’s house might prove not wholly unprofitable he
relented, unlocked the door of his room, threw on the first garments that
came to hand, and set forth. To every question put to him by the tchinovniks
he answered firmly and with assurance. Chichikov, he averred, had indeed
purchased dead souls, and to the tune of several thousand roubles. In fact,
he (Nozdrev) had himself sold him some, and still saw no reason why he
should not have done so. Next, to the question of whether or not he
considered Chichikov to be a spy, he replied in the affirmative, and added
that, as long ago as his and Chichikov’s joint schooldays, the said
Chichikov had been known as “The Informer,” and repeatedly been
thrashed by his companions on that account. Again, to the question of
whether or not Chichikov was a forger of currency notes the deponent, as
before, responded in the affirmative, and appended thereto an anecdote
illustrative of Chichikov’s extraordinary dexterity of hand—namely, an
anecdote to that effect that, once upon a time, on learning that two million
roubles worth of counterfeit notes were lying in Chichikov’s house, the
authorities had placed seals upon the building, and had surrounded it on
every side with an armed guard; whereupon Chichikov had, during the
night, changed each of these seals for a new one, and also so arranged
matters that, when the house was searched, the forged notes were found to
be genuine ones!
Again, to the question of whether or not Chichikov had schemed to
abduct the Governor’s daughter, and also whether it was true that he,
Nozdrev, had undertaken to aid and abet him in the act, the witness replied
that, had he not undertaken to do so, the affair would never have come off.
At this point the witness pulled himself up, on realising that he had told a
lie which might get him into trouble; but his tongue was not to be denied—
the details trembling on its tip were too alluring, and he even went on to cite
the name of the village church where the pair had arranged to be married,
that of the priest who had performed the ceremony, the amount of the fees
paid for the same (seventy-five roubles), and statements (1) that the priest
had refused to solemnise the wedding until Chichikov had frightened him
by threatening to expose the fact that he (the priest) had married Mikhail, a
local corn dealer, to his paramour, and (2) that Chichikov had ordered both
a koliaska for the couple’s conveyance and relays of horses from the post-

houses on the road. Nay, the narrative, as detailed by Nozdrev, even reached
the point of his mentioning certain of the postillions by name! Next, the
tchinovniks sounded him on the question of Chichikov’s possible identity
with Napoleon; but before long they had reason to regret the step, for
Nozdrev responded with a rambling rigmarole such as bore no resemblance
to anything possibly conceivable. Finally, the majority of the audience left
the room, and only the Chief of Police remained to listen (in the hope of
gathering something more); but at last even he found himself forced to
disclaim the speaker with a gesture which said: “The devil only knows what
the fellow is talking about!” and so voiced the general opinion that it was
no use trying to gather figs of thistles.
Meanwhile Chichikov knew nothing of these events; for, having
contracted a slight chill, coupled with a sore throat, he had decided to keep
his room for three days; during which time he gargled his throat with milk
and fig juice, consumed the fruit from which the juice had been extracted,
and wore around his neck a poultice of camomile and camphor. Also, to
while away the hours, he made new and more detailed lists of the souls
which he had bought, perused a work by the Duchesse de la Valliere 36,
rummaged in his portmanteau, looked through various articles and papers
which he discovered in his dispatch-box, and found every one of these
occupations tedious. Nor could he understand why none of his official
friends had come to see him and inquire after his health, seeing that, not
long since, there had been standing in front of the inn the drozhkis both of
the Postmaster, the Public Prosecutor, and the President of the Council. He
wondered and wondered, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders, fell to
pacing the room. At length he felt better, and his spirits rose at the prospect
of once more going out into the fresh air; wherefore, having shaved a
plentiful growth of hair from his face, he dressed with such alacrity as
almost to cause a split in his trousers, sprinkled himself with eau-de-
Cologne, and wrapping himself in warm clothes, and turning up the collar
of his coat, sallied forth into the street. His first destination was intended to
be the Governor’s mansion, and, as he walked along, certain thoughts
concerning the Governor’s daughter would keep whirling through his head,
so that almost he forgot where he was, and took to smiling and cracking
jokes to himself.
Arrived at the Governor’s entrance, he was about to divest himself of his
scarf when a Swiss footman greeted him with the words, “I am forbidden to

admit you.”
“What?” he exclaimed. “You do not know me? Look at me again, and see
if you do not recognise me.”
“Of course I recognise you,” the footman replied. “I have seen you
before, but have been ordered to admit any one else rather than Monsieur
Chichikov.”
“Indeed? And why so?”
“Those are my orders, and they must be obeyed,” said the footman,
confronting Chichikov with none of that politeness with which, on former
occasions, he had hastened to divest our hero of his wrappings. Evidently
he was of opinion that, since the gentry declined to receive the visitor, the
latter must certainly be a rogue.
“I cannot understand it,” said Chichikov to himself. Then he departed,
and made his way to the house of the President of the Council. But so put
about was that official by Chichikov’s entry that he could not utter two
consecutive words—he could only murmur some rubbish which left both
his visitor and himself out of countenance. Chichikov wondered, as he left
the house, what the President’s muttered words could have meant, but failed
to make head or tail of them. Next, he visited, in turn, the Chief of Police,
the Vice-Governor, the Postmaster, and others; but in each case he either
failed to be accorded admittance or was received so strangely, and with
such a measure of constraint and conversational awkwardness and absence
of mind and embarrassment, that he began to fear for the sanity of his hosts.
Again and again did he strive to divine the cause, but could not do so; so he
went wandering aimlessly about the town, without succeeding in making up
his mind whether he or the officials had gone crazy. At length, in a state
bordering upon bewilderment, he returned to the inn—to the establishment
whence, that every afternoon, he had set forth in such exuberance of spirits.
Feeling the need of something to do, he ordered tea, and, still marvelling at
the strangeness of his position, was about to pour out the beverage when the
door opened and Nozdrev made his appearance.
“What says the proverb?” he began. “‘To see a friend, seven versts is not
too long a round to make.’ I happened to be passing the house, saw a light
in your window, and thought to myself: ‘Now, suppose I were to run up and
pay him a visit? It is unlikely that he will be asleep.’ Ah, ha! I see tea on
your table! Good! Then I will drink a cup with you, for I had wretched stuff

for dinner, and it is beginning to lie heavy on my stomach. Also, tell your
man to fill me a pipe. Where is your own pipe?”
“I never smoke,” rejoined Chichikov drily.
“Rubbish! As if I did not know what a chimney-pot you are! What is your
man’s name? Hi, Vakhramei! Come here!”
“Petrushka is his name, not Vakhramei.”
“Indeed? But you USED to have a man called Vakhramei, didn’t you?”
“No, never.”
“Oh, well. Then it must be Derebin’s man I am thinking of. What a lucky
fellow that Derebin is! An aunt of his has gone and quarrelled with her son
for marrying a serf woman, and has left all her property to HIM, to Derebin.
Would that I had an aunt of that kind to provide against future
contingencies! But why have you been hiding yourself away? I suppose the
reason has been that you go in for abstruse subjects and are fond of
reading” (why Nozdrev should have drawn these conclusions no one could
possibly have said—least of all Chichikov himself). “By the way, I can tell
you of something that would have found you scope for your satirical vein”
(the conclusion as to Chichikov’s “satirical vein” was, as before, altogether
unwarranted on Nozdrev’s part). “That is to say, you would have seen
merchant Likhachev losing a pile of money at play. My word, you would
have laughed! A fellow with me named Perependev said: ‘Would that
Chichikov had been here! It would have been the very thing for him!’” (As
a matter of fact, never since the day of his birth had Nozdrev met any one of
the name of Perependev.) “However, my friend, you must admit that you
treated me rather badly the day that we played that game of chess; but, as I
won the game, I bear you no malice. A propos, I am just from the
President’s, and ought to tell you that the feeling against you in the town is
very strong, for every one believes you to be a forger of currency notes. I
myself was sent for and questioned about you, but I stuck up for you
through thick and thin, and told the tchinovniks that I had been at school
with you, and had known your father. In fact, I gave the fellows a knock or
two for themselves.”
“You say that I am believed to be a forger?” said Chichikov, starting from
his seat.

“Yes,” said Nozdrev. “Why have you gone and frightened everybody as
you have done? Some of our folk are almost out of their minds about it, and
declare you to be either a brigand in disguise or a spy. Yesterday the Public
Prosecutor even died of it, and is to be buried to-morrow” (this was true in
so far as that, on the previous day, the official in question had had a fatal
stroke—probably induced by the excitement of the public meeting). “Of
course, I don’t suppose you to be anything of the kind, but, you see, these
fellows are in a blue funk about the new Governor-General, for they think
he will make trouble for them over your affair. A propos, he is believed to
be a man who puts on airs, and turns up his nose at everything; and if so, he
will get on badly with the dvoriane, seeing that fellows of that sort need to
be humoured a bit. Yes, my word! Should the new Governor-General shut
himself up in his study, and give no balls, there will be the very devil to
pay! By the way, Chichikov, that is a risky scheme of yours.”
“What scheme to you mean?” Chichikov asked uneasily.
“Why, that scheme of carrying off the Governor’s daughter. However, to
tell the truth, I was expecting something of the kind. No sooner did I see
you and her together at the ball than I said to myself: ‘Ah, ha! Chichikov is
not here for nothing!’ For my own part, I think you have made a poor
choice, for I can see nothing in her at all. On the other hand, the niece of a
friend of mine named Bikusov—she IS a girl, and no mistake! A regular
what you might call ‘miracle in muslin!’”
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Chichikov with his eyes
distended. “HOW could I carry off the Governor’s daughter? What on earth
do you mean?”
“Come, come! What a secretive fellow you are! My only object in having
come to see you is to lend you a helping hand in the matter. Look here. On
condition that you will lend me three thousand roubles, I will stand you the
cost of the wedding, the koliaska, and the relays of horses. I must have the
money even if I die for it.”
Throughout Nozdrev’s maunderings Chichikov had been rubbing his
eyes to ascertain whether or not he was dreaming. What with the charge of
being a forger, the accusation of having schemed an abduction, the death of
the Public Prosecutor (whatever might have been its cause), and the advent
of a new Governor-General, he felt utterly dismayed.

“Things having come to their present pass,” he reflected, “I had better not
linger here—I had better be off at once.”
Getting rid of Nozdrev as soon as he could, he sent for Selifan, and
ordered him to be up at daybreak, in order to clean the britchka and to have
everything ready for a start at six o’clock. Yet, though Selifan replied, “Very
well, Paul Ivanovitch,” he hesitated awhile by the door. Next, Chichikov bid
Petrushka get out the dusty portmanteau from under the bed, and then set to
work to cram into it, pell-mell, socks, shirts, collars (both clean and dirty),
boot trees, a calendar, and a variety of other articles. Everything went into
the receptacle just as it came to hand, since his one object was to obviate
any possible delay in the morning’s departure. Meanwhile the reluctant
Selifan slowly, very slowly, left the room, as slowly descended the staircase
(on each separate step of which he left a muddy foot-print), and, finally,
halted to scratch his head. What that scratching may have meant no one
could say; for, with the Russian populace, such a scratching may mean any
one of a hundred things.

CHAPTER XI

Nevertheless events did not turn out as Chichikov had intended they
should. In the first place, he overslept himself. That was check number one.
In the second place, on his rising and inquiring whether the britchka had
been harnessed and everything got ready, he was informed that neither of
those two things had been done. That was check number two. Beside
himself with rage, he prepared to give Selifan the wigging of his life, and,
meanwhile, waited impatiently to hear what the delinquent had got to say in
his defence. It goes without saying that when Selifan made his appearance
in the doorway he had only the usual excuses to offer—the sort of excuses
usually offered by servants when a hasty departure has become imperatively
necessary.
“Paul Ivanovitch,” he said, “the horses require shoeing.”
“Blockhead!” exclaimed Chichikov. “Why did you not tell me of that
before, you damned fool? Was there not time enough for them to be shod?”
“Yes, I suppose there was,” agreed Selifan. “Also one of the wheels is in
want of a new tyre, for the roads are so rough that the old tyre is worn
through. Also, the body of the britchka is so rickety that probably it will not
last more than a couple of stages.”
“Rascal!” shouted Chichikov, clenching his fists and approaching Selifan
in such a manner that, fearing to receive a blow, the man backed and
dodged aside. “Do you mean to ruin me, and to break all our bones on the
road, you cursed idiot? For these three weeks past you have been doing
nothing at all; yet now, at the last moment, you come here stammering and
playing the fool! Do you think I keep you just to eat and to drive yourself
about? You must have known of this before? Did you, or did you not, know
it? Answer me at once.”
“Yes, I did know it,” replied Selifan, hanging his head.
“Then why didn’t you tell me about it?”

Selifan had no reply immediately ready, so continued to hang his head
while quietly saying to himself: “See how well I have managed things! I
knew what was the matter, yet I did not say.”
“And now,” continued Chichikov, “go you at once and fetch a
blacksmith. Tell him that everything must be put right within two hours at
the most. Do you hear? If that should not be done, I, I—I will give you the
best flogging that ever you had in your life.” Truly Chichikov was almost
beside himself with fury.
Turning towards the door, as though for the purpose of going and
carrying out his orders, Selifan halted and added:
“That skewbald, barin—you might think it well to sell him, seeing that he
is nothing but a rascal? A horse like that is more of a hindrance than a help.”
“What? Do you expect me to go NOW to the market-place and sell him?”
“Well, Paul Ivanovitch, he is good for nothing but show, since by nature
he is a most cunning beast. Never in my life have I seen such a horse.”
“Fool! Whenever I may wish to sell him I SHALL sell him. Meanwhile,
don’t you trouble your head about what doesn’t concern you, but go and
fetch a blacksmith, and see that everything is put right within two hours.
Otherwise I will take the very hair off your head, and beat you till you
haven’t a face left. Be off! Hurry!”
Selifan departed, and Chichikov, his ill-humour vented, threw down upon
the floor the poignard which he always took with him as a means of
instilling respect into whomsoever it might concern, and spent the next
quarter of an hour in disputing with a couple of blacksmiths—men who, as
usual, were rascals of the type which, on perceiving that something is
wanted in a hurry, at once multiplies its terms for providing the same.
Indeed, for all Chichikov’s storming and raging as he dubbed the fellows
robbers and extortioners and thieves, he could make no impression upon the
pair, since, true to their character, they declined to abate their prices, and,
even when they had begun their work, spent upon it, not two hours, but five
and a half. Meanwhile he had the satisfaction of experiencing that delightful
time with which all travellers are familiar—namely, the time during which
one sits in a room where, except for a litter of string, waste paper, and so
forth, everything else has been packed. But to all things there comes an end,
and there arrived also the long-awaited moment when the britchka had
received the luggage, the faulty wheel had been fitted with a new tyre, the

horses had been re-shod, and the predatory blacksmiths had departed with
their gains. “Thank God!” thought Chichikov as the britchka rolled out of
the gates of the inn, and the vehicle began to jolt over the cobblestones. Yet
a feeling which he could not altogether have defined filled his breast as he
gazed upon the houses and the streets and the garden walls which he might
never see again. Presently, on turning a corner, the britchka was brought to
a halt through the fact that along the street there was filing a seemingly
endless funeral procession. Leaning forward in his britchka, Chichikov
asked Petrushka whose obsequies the procession represented, and was told
that they represented those of the Public Prosecutor. Disagreeably shocked,
our hero hastened to raise the hood of the vehicle, to draw the curtains
across the windows, and to lean back into a corner. While the britchka
remained thus halted Selifan and Petrushka, their caps doffed, sat watching
the progress of the cortege, after they had received strict instructions not to
greet any fellow-servant whom they might recognise. Behind the hearse
walked the whole body of tchinovniks, bare-headed; and though, for a
moment or two, Chichikov feared that some of their number might discern
him in his britchka, he need not have disturbed himself, since their attention
was otherwise engaged. In fact, they were not even exchanging the small
talk customary among members of such processions, but thinking
exclusively of their own affairs, of the advent of the new Governor-General,
and of the probable manner in which he would take up the reins of
administration. Next came a number of carriages, from the windows of
which peered the ladies in mourning toilets. Yet the movements of their
hands and lips made it evident that they were indulging in animated
conversation—probably about the Governor-General, the balls which he
might be expected to give, and their own eternal fripperies and gewgaws.
Lastly came a few empty drozhkis. As soon as the latter had passed, our
hero was able to continue on his way. Throwing back the hood of the
britchka, he said to himself:
“Ah, good friend, you have lived your life, and now it is over! In the
newspapers they will say of you that you died regretted not only by your
subordinates, but also by humanity at large, as well as that, a respected
citizen, a kind father, and a husband beyond reproach, you went to your
grave amid the tears of your widow and orphans. Yet, should those journals
be put to it to name any particular circumstance which justified this eulogy

of you, they would be forced to fall back upon the fact that you grew a pair
of exceptionally thick eyebrows!”
With that Chichikov bid Selifan quicken his pace, and concluded: “After
all, it is as well that I encountered the procession, for they say that to meet a
funeral is lucky.”
Presently the britchka turned into some less frequented streets, lines of
wooden fencing of the kind which mark the outskirts of a town began to file
by, the cobblestones came to an end, the macadam of the highroad
succeeded to them, and once more there began on either side of the turnpike
a procession of verst stones, road menders, and grey villages; inns with
samovars and peasant women and landlords who came running out of yards
with seivefuls of oats; pedestrians in worn shoes which, it might be, had
covered eight hundred versts; little towns, bright with booths for the sale of
flour in barrels, boots, small loaves, and other trifles; heaps of slag; much
repaired bridges; expanses of field to right and to left; stout landowners; a
mounted soldier bearing a green, iron-clamped box inscribed: “The —th
Battery of Artillery”; long strips of freshly-tilled earth which gleamed
green, yellow, and black on the face of the countryside. With it mingled
long-drawn singing, glimpses of elm-tops amid mist, the far-off notes of
bells, endless clouds of rocks, and the illimitable line of the horizon.
Ah, Russia, Russia, from my beautiful home in a strange land I can still
see you! In you everything is poor and disordered and unhomely; in you the
eye is neither cheered nor dismayed by temerities of nature which a yet
more temerarious art has conquered; in you one beholds no cities with lofty,
many-windowed mansions, lofty as crags, no picturesque trees, no ivy-clad
ruins, no waterfalls with their everlasting spray and roar, no beetling
precipices which confuse the brain with their stony immensity, no vistas of
vines and ivy and millions of wild roses and ageless lines of blue hills
which look almost unreal against the clear, silvery background of the sky. In
you everything is flat and open; your towns project like points or signals
from smooth levels of plain, and nothing whatsoever enchants or deludes
the eye. Yet what secret, what invincible force draws me to you? Why does
there ceaselessly echo and re-echo in my ears the sad song which hovers
throughout the length and the breadth of your borders? What is the burden
of that song? Why does it wail and sob and catch at my heart? What say the
notes which thus painfully caress and embrace my soul, and flit, uttering

their lamentations, around me? What is it you seek of me, O Russia? What
is the hidden bond which subsists between us? Why do you regard me as
you do? Why does everything within you turn upon me eyes full of
yearning? Even at this moment, as I stand dumbly, fixedly, perplexedly
contemplating your vastness, a menacing cloud, charged with gathering
rain, seems to overshadow my head. What is it that your boundless
expanses presage? Do they not presage that one day there will arise in you
ideas as boundless as yourself? Do they not presage that one day you too
will know no limits? Do they not presage that one day, when again you
shall have room for their exploits, there will spring to life the heroes of old?
How the power of your immensity enfolds me, and reverberates through all
my being with a wild, strange spell, and flashes in my eyes with an almost
supernatural radiance! Yes, a strange, brilliant, unearthly vista indeed do
you disclose, O Russia, country of mine!
“Stop, stop, you fool!” shouted Chichikov to Selifan; and even as he
spoke a troika, bound on Government business, came chattering by, and
disappeared in a cloud of dust. To Chichikov’s curses at Selifan for not
having drawn out of the way with more alacrity a rural constable with
moustaches of the length of an arshin added his quota.
What a curious and attractive, yet also what an unreal, fascination the
term “highway” connotes! And how interesting for its own sake is a
highway! Should the day be a fine one (though chilly) in mellowing
autumn, press closer your travelling cloak, and draw down your cap over
your ears, and snuggle cosily, comfortably into a corner of the britchka
before a last shiver shall course through your limbs, and the ensuing
warmth shall put to flight the autumnal cold and damp. As the horses gallop
on their way, how delightfully will drowsiness come stealing upon you, and
make your eyelids droop! For a while, through your somnolence, you will
continue to hear the hard breathing of the team and the rumbling of the
wheels; but at length, sinking back into your corner, you will relapse into
the stage of snoring. And when you awake—behold! you will find that five
stages have slipped away, and that the moon is shining, and that you have
reached a strange town of churches and old wooden cupolas and blackened
spires and white, half-timbered houses! And as the moonlight glints hither
and thither, almost you will believe that the walls and the streets and the
pavements of the place are spread with sheets—sheets shot with coal-black
shadows which make the wooden roofs look all the brighter under the

slanting beams of the pale luminary. Nowhere is a soul to be seen, for every
one is plunged in slumber. Yet no. In a solitary window a light is flickering
where some good burgher is mending his boots, or a baker drawing a batch
of dough. O night and powers of heaven, how perfect is the blackness of
your infinite vault—how lofty, how remote its inaccessible depths where it
lies spread in an intangible, yet audible, silence! Freshly does the lulling
breath of night blow in your face, until once more you relapse into snoring
oblivion, and your poor neighbour turns angrily in his corner as he begins to
be conscious of your weight. Then again you awake, but this time to find
yourself confronted with only fields and steppes. Everywhere in the
ascendant is the desolation of space. But suddenly the ciphers on a verst
stone leap to the eye! Morning is rising, and on the chill, gradually paling
line of the horizon you can see gleaming a faint gold streak. The wind
freshens and grows keener, and you snuggle closer in your cloak; yet how
glorious is that freshness, and how marvellous the sleep in which once
again you become enfolded! A jolt!—and for the last time you return to
consciousness. By now the sun is high in the heavens, and you hear a voice
cry “gently, gently!” as a farm waggon issues from a by-road. Below,
enclosed within an ample dike, stretches a sheet of water which glistens like
copper in the sunlight. Beyond, on the side of a slope, lie some scattered
peasants’ huts, a manor house, and, flanking the latter, a village church with
its cross flashing like a star. There also comes wafted to your ear the sound
of peasants’ laughter, while in your inner man you are becoming conscious
of an appetite which is not to be withstood.
Oh long-drawn highway, how excellent you are! How often have I in
weariness and despondency set forth upon your length, and found in you
salvation and rest! How often, as I followed your leading, have I been
visited with wonderful thoughts and poetic dreams and curious, wild
impressions!
At this moment our friend Chichikov also was experiencing visions of a
not wholly prosaic nature. Let us peep into his soul and share them. At first
he remained unconscious of anything whatsoever, for he was too much
engaged in making sure that he was really clear of the town; but as soon as
he saw that it had completely disappeared, with its mills and factories and
other urban appurtenances, and that even the steeples of the white stone
churches had sunk below the horizon, he turned his attention to the road,
and the town of N. vanished from his thoughts as completely as though he

had not seen it since childhood. Again, in its turn, the road ceased to interest
him, and he began to close his eyes and to loll his head against the cushions.
Of this let the author take advantage, in order to speak at length concerning
his hero; since hitherto he (the author) has been prevented from so doing by
Nozdrev and balls and ladies and local intrigues—by those thousand trifles
which seem trifles only when they are introduced into a book, but which, in
life, figure as affairs of importance. Let us lay them aside, and betake
ourselves to business.
Whether the character whom I have selected for my hero has pleased my
readers is, of course, exceedingly doubtful. At all events the ladies will have
failed to approve him for the fair sex demands in a hero perfection, and,
should there be the least mental or physical stain on him—well, woe betide!
Yes, no matter how profoundly the author may probe that hero’s soul, no
matter how clearly he may portray his figure as in a mirror, he will be given
no credit for the achievement. Indeed, Chichikov’s very stoutness and
plenitude of years may have militated against him, for never is a hero
pardoned for the former, and the majority of ladies will, in such case, turn
away, and mutter to themselves: “Phew! What a beast!” Yes, the author is
well aware of this. Yet, though he could not, to save his life, take a person
of virtue for his principal character, it may be that this story contains themes
never before selected, and that in it there projects the whole boundless
wealth of Russian psychology; that it portrays, as well as Chichikov, the
peasant who is gifted with the virtues which God has sent him, and the
marvellous maiden of Russia who has not her like in all the world for her
beautiful feminine spirituality, the roots of which lie buried in noble
aspirations and boundless self-denial. In fact, compared with these types,
the virtuous of other races seem lifeless, as does an inanimate volume when
compared with the living word. Yes, each time that there arises in Russia a
movement of thought, it becomes clear that the movement sinks deep into
the Slavonic nature where it would but have skimmed the surface of other
nations.—But why am I talking like this? Whither am I tending? It is indeed
shameful that an author who long ago reached man’s estate, and was
brought up to a course of severe introspection and sober, solitary self-
enlightenment, should give way to such jejune wandering from the point.
To everything its proper time and place and turn. As I was saying, it does
not lie in me to take a virtuous character for my hero: and I will tell you
why. It is because it is high time that a rest were given to the “poor, but

virtuous” individual; it is because the phrase “a man of worth” has grown
into a by-word; it is because the “man of worth” has become converted into
a horse, and there is not a writer but rides him and flogs him, in and out of
season; it is because the “man of worth” has been starved until he has not a
shred of his virtue left, and all that remains of his body is but the ribs and
the hide; it is because the “man of worth” is for ever being smuggled upon
the scene; it is because the “man of worth” has at length forfeited every
one’s respect. For these reasons do I reaffirm that it is high time to yoke a
rascal to the shafts. Let us yoke that rascal.
Our hero’s beginnings were both modest and obscure. True, his parents
were dvoriane, but he in no way resembled them. At all events, a short,
squab female relative who was present at his birth exclaimed as she lifted
up the baby: “He is altogether different from what I had expected him to be.
He ought to have taken after his maternal grandmother, whereas he has been
born, as the proverb has it, ‘like not father nor mother, but like a chance
passer-by.’” Thus from the first life regarded the little Chichikov with sour
distaste, and as through a dim, frost-encrusted window. A tiny room with
diminutive casements which were never opened, summer or winter; an
invalid father in a dressing-gown lined with lambskin, and with an ailing
foot swathed in bandages—a man who was continually drawing deep
breaths, and walking up and down the room, and spitting into a sandbox; a
period of perpetually sitting on a bench with pen in hand and ink on lips and
fingers; a period of being eternally confronted with the copy-book maxim,
“Never tell a lie, but obey your superiors, and cherish virtue in your heart;”
an everlasting scraping and shuffling of slippers up and down the room; a
period of continually hearing a well-known, strident voice exclaim: “So you
have been playing the fool again!” at times when the child, weary of the
mortal monotony of his task, had added a superfluous embellishment to his
copy; a period of experiencing the ever-familiar, but ever-unpleasant,
sensation which ensued upon those words as the boy’s ear was painfully
twisted between two long fingers bent backwards at the tips—such is the
miserable picture of that youth of which, in later life, Chichikov preserved
but the faintest of memories! But in this world everything is liable to swift
and sudden change; and, one day in early spring, when the rivers had
melted, the father set forth with his little son in a teliezshka 37 drawn by a
sorrel steed of the kind known to horsy folk as a soroka, and having as
coachman the diminutive hunchback who, father of the only serf family

belonging to the elder Chichikov, served as general factotum in the
Chichikov establishment. For a day and a half the soroka conveyed them on
their way; during which time they spent the night at a roadside inn, crossed
a river, dined off cold pie and roast mutton, and eventually arrived at the
county town. To the lad the streets presented a spectacle of unwonted
brilliancy, and he gaped with amazement. Turning into a side alley wherein
the mire necessitated both the most strenuous exertions on the soroka’s part
and the most vigorous castigation on the part of the driver and the barin, the
conveyance eventually reached the gates of a courtyard which, combined
with a small fruit garden containing various bushes, a couple of apple-trees
in blossom, and a mean, dirty little shed, constituted the premises attached
to an antiquated-looking villa. Here there lived a relative of the Chichikovs,
a wizened old lady who went to market in person and dried her stockings at
the samovar. On seeing the boy, she patted his cheek and expressed
satisfaction at his physique; whereupon the fact became disclosed that here
he was to abide for a while, for the purpose of attending a local school.
After a night’s rest his father prepared to betake himself homeward again;
but no tears marked the parting between him and his son, he merely gave
the lad a copper or two and (a far more important thing) the following
injunctions. “See here, my boy. Do your lessons well, do not idle or play the
fool, and above all things, see that you please your teachers. So long as you
observe these rules you will make progress, and surpass your fellows, even
if God shall have denied you brains, and you should fail in your studies.
Also, do not consort overmuch with your comrades, for they will do you no
good; but, should you do so, then make friends with the richer of them,
since one day they may be useful to you. Also, never entertain or treat any
one, but see that every one entertains and treats YOU. Lastly, and above all
else, keep and save your every kopeck. To save money is the most
important thing in life. Always a friend or a comrade may fail you, and be
the first to desert you in a time of adversity; but never will a KOPECK fail
you, whatever may be your plight. Nothing in the world cannot be done,
cannot be attained, with the aid of money.” These injunctions given, the
father embraced his son, and set forth on his return; and though the son
never again beheld his parent, the latter’s words and precepts sank deep into
the little Chichikov’s soul.
The next day young Pavlushka made his first attendance at school. But
no special aptitude in any branch of learning did he display. Rather, his

distinguishing characteristics were diligence and neatness. On the other
hand, he developed great intelligence as regards the PRACTICAL aspect of
life. In a trice he divined and comprehended how things ought to be
worked, and, from that time forth, bore himself towards his school-fellows
in such a way that, though they frequently gave him presents, he not only
never returned the compliment, but even on occasions pocketed the gifts for
the mere purpose of selling them again. Also, boy though he was, he
acquired the art of self-denial. Of the trifle which his father had given him
on parting he spent not a kopeck, but, the same year, actually added to his
little store by fashioning a bullfinch of wax, painting it, and selling the same
at a handsome profit. Next, as time went on, he engaged in other
speculations—in particular, in the scheme of buying up eatables, taking his
seat in class beside boys who had plenty of pocket-money, and, as soon as
such opulent individuals showed signs of failing attention (and, therefore,
of growing appetite), tendering them, from beneath the desk, a roll of
pudding or a piece of gingerbread, and charging according to degree of
appetite and size of portion. He also spent a couple of months in training a
mouse, which he kept confined in a little wooden cage in his bedroom. At
length, when the training had reached the point that, at the several words of
command, the mouse would stand upon its hind legs, lie down, and get up
again, he sold the creature for a respectable sum. Thus, in time, his gains
attained the amount of five roubles; whereupon he made himself a purse
and then started to fill a second receptacle of the kind. Still more studied
was his attitude towards the authorities. No one could sit more quietly in his
place on the bench than he. In the same connection it may be remarked that
his teacher was a man who, above all things, loved peace and good
behaviour, and simply could not abide clever, witty boys, since he suspected
them of laughing at him. Consequently any lad who had once attracted the
master’s attention with a manifestation of intelligence needed but to shuffle
in his place, or unintentionally to twitch an eyebrow, for the said master at
once to burst into a rage, to turn the supposed offender out of the room, and
to visit him with unmerciful punishment. “Ah, my fine fellow,” he would
say, “I’LL cure you of your impudence and want of respect! I know you
through and through far better than you know yourself, and will take good
care that you have to go down upon your knees and curb your appetite.”
Whereupon the wretched lad would, for no cause of which he was aware, be
forced to wear out his breeches on the floor and go hungry for days.

“Talents and gifts,” the schoolmaster would declare, “are so much rubbish. I
respect only good behaviour, and shall award full marks to those who
conduct themselves properly, even if they fail to learn a single letter of their
alphabet: whereas to those in whom I may perceive a tendency to jocularity
I shall award nothing, even though they should outdo Solon himself.” For
the same reason he had no great love of the author Krylov, in that the latter
says in one of his Fables: “In my opinion, the more one sings, the better one
works;” and often the pedagogue would relate how, in a former school of
his, the silence had been such that a fly could be heard buzzing on the wing,
and for the space of a whole year not a single pupil sneezed or coughed in
class, and so complete was the absence of all sound that no one could have
told that there was a soul in the place. Of this mentor young Chichikov
speedily appraised the mentality; wherefore he fashioned his behaviour to
correspond with it. Not an eyelid, not an eyebrow, would he stir during
school hours, howsoever many pinches he might receive from behind; and
only when the bell rang would he run to anticipate his fellows in handing
the master the three-cornered cap which that dignitary customarily sported,
and then to be the first to leave the class-room, and contrive to meet the
master not less than two or three times as the latter walked homeward, in
order that, on each occasion, he might doff his cap. And the scheme proved
entirely successful. Throughout the period of his attendance at school he
was held in high favour, and, on leaving the establishment, received full
marks for every subject, as well as a diploma and a book inscribed (in gilt
letters) “For Exemplary Diligence and the Perfection of Good Conduct.” By
this time he had grown into a fairly good-looking youth of the age when the
chin first calls for a razor; and at about the same period his father died,
leaving behind him, as his estate, four waistcoats completely worn out, two
ancient frockcoats, and a small sum of money. Apparently he had been
skilled only in RECOMMENDING the saving of kopecks—not in
ACTUALLY PRACTISING the art. Upon that Chichikov sold the old
house and its little parcel of land for a thousand roubles, and removed, with
his one serf and the serf’s family, to the capital, where he set about
organising a new establishment and entering the Civil Service.
Simultaneously with his doing so, his old schoolmaster lost (through
stupidity or otherwise) the establishment over which he had hitherto
presided, and in which he had set so much store by silence and good
behaviour. Grief drove him to drink, and when nothing was left, even for

that purpose, he retired—ill, helpless, and starving—into a broken-down,
cheerless hovel. But certain of his former pupils—the same clever, witty
lads whom he had once been wont to accuse of impertinence and evil
conduct generally—heard of his pitiable plight, and collected for him what
money they could, even to the point of selling their own necessaries. Only
Chichikov, when appealed to, pleaded inability, and compromised with a
contribution of a single piatak 38: which his old schoolfellows straightway
returned him—full in the face, and accompanied with a shout of “Oh, you
skinflint!” As for the poor schoolmaster, when he heard what his former
pupils had done, he buried his face in his hands, and the tears gushed from
his failing eyes as from those of a helpless infant. “God has brought you but
to weep over my death-bed,” he murmured feebly; and added with a
profound sigh, on hearing of Chichikov’s conduct: “Ah, Pavlushka, how a
human being may become changed! Once you were a good lad, and gave
me no trouble; but now you are become proud indeed!”
Yet let it not be inferred from this that our hero’s character had grown so
blase and hard, or his conscience so blunted, as to preclude his experiencing
a particle of sympathy or compassion. As a matter of fact, he was capable
both of the one and the other, and would have been glad to assist his old
teacher had no great sum been required, or had he not been called upon to
touch the fund which he had decided should remain intact. In other words,
the father’s injunction, “Guard and save every kopeck,” had become a hard
and fast rule of the son’s. Yet the youth had no particular attachment to
money for money’s sake; he was not possessed with the true instinct for
hoarding and niggardliness. Rather, before his eyes there floated ever a
vision of life and its amenities and advantages—a vision of carriages and an
elegantly furnished house and recherche dinners; and it was in the hope that
some day he might attain these things that he saved every kopeck and,
meanwhile, stinted both himself and others. Whenever a rich man passed
him by in a splendid drozhki drawn by swift and handsomely-caparisoned
horses, he would halt as though deep in thought, and say to himself, like a
man awakening from a long sleep: “That gentleman must have been a
financier, he has so little hair on his brow.” In short, everything connected
with wealth and plenty produced upon him an ineffaceable impression.
Even when he left school he took no holiday, so strong in him was the
desire to get to work and enter the Civil Service. Yet, for all the encomiums
contained in his diploma, he had much ado to procure a nomination to a

Government Department; and only after a long time was a minor post found
for him, at a salary of thirty or forty roubles a year. Nevertheless, wretched
though this appointment was, he determined, by strict attention to business,
to overcome all obstacles, and to win success. And, indeed, the self-denial,
the patience, and the economy which he displayed were remarkable. From
early morn until late at night he would, with indefatigable zeal of body and
mind, remain immersed in his sordid task of copying official documents—
never going home, snatching what sleep he could on tables in the building,
and dining with the watchman on duty. Yet all the while he contrived to
remain clean and neat, to preserve a cheerful expression of countenance,
and even to cultivate a certain elegance of movement. In passing, it may be
remarked that his fellow tchinovniks were a peculiarly plain, unsightly lot,
some of them having faces like badly baked bread, swollen cheeks,
receding chins, and cracked and blistered upper lips. Indeed, not a man of
them was handsome. Also, their tone of voice always contained a note of
sullenness, as though they had a mind to knock some one on the head; and
by their frequent sacrifices to Bacchus they showed that even yet there
remains in the Slavonic nature a certain element of paganism. Nay, the
Director’s room itself they would invade while still licking their lips, and
since their breath was not over-aromatic, the atmosphere of the room grew
not over-pleasant. Naturally, among such an official staff a man like
Chichikov could not fail to attract attention and remark, since in everything
—in cheerfulness of demeanour, in suavity of voice, and in complete
neglect of the use of strong potions—he was the absolute antithesis of his
companions. Yet his path was not an easy one to tread, for over him he had
the misfortune to have placed in authority a Chief Clerk who was a graven
image of elderly insensibility and inertia. Always the same, always
unapproachable, this functionary could never in his life have smiled or
asked civilly after an acquaintance’s health. Nor had any one ever seen him
a whit different in the street or at his own home from what he was in the
office, or showing the least interest in anything whatever, or getting drunk
and relapsing into jollity in his cups, or indulging in that species of wild
gaiety which, when intoxicated, even a burglar affects. No, not a particle of
this was there in him. Nor, for that matter, was there in him a particle of
anything at all, whether good or bad: which complete negativeness of
character produced rather a strange effect. In the same way, his wizened,
marble-like features reminded one of nothing in particular, so primly

proportioned were they. Only the numerous pockmarks and dimples with
which they were pitted placed him among the number of those over whose
faces, to quote the popular saying, “The Devil has walked by night to grind
peas.” In short, it would seem that no human agency could have approached
such a man and gained his goodwill. Yet Chichikov made the effort. As a
first step, he took to consulting the other’s convenience in all manner of
insignificant trifles—to cleaning his pens carefully, and, when they had
been prepared exactly to the Chief Clerk’s liking, laying them ready at his
elbow; to dusting and sweeping from his table all superfluous sand and
tobacco ash; to procuring a new mat for his inkstand; to looking for his hat
—the meanest-looking hat that ever the world beheld—and having it ready
for him at the exact moment when business came to an end; to brushing his
back if it happened to become smeared with whitewash from a wall. Yet all
this passed as unnoticed as though it had never been done. Finally,
Chichikov sniffed into his superior’s family and domestic life, and learnt
that he possessed a grown-up daughter on whose face also there had taken
place a nocturnal, diabolical grinding of peas. HERE was a quarter whence
a fresh attack might be delivered! After ascertaining what church the
daughter attended on Sundays, our hero took to contriving to meet her in a
neat suit and a well-starched dickey: and soon the scheme began to work.
The surly Chief Clerk wavered for a while; then ended by inviting
Chichikov to tea. Nor could any man in the office have told you how it
came about that before long Chichikov had removed to the Chief Clerk’s
house, and become a person necessary—indeed indispensable—to the
household, seeing that he bought the flour and the sugar, treated the
daughter as his betrothed, called the Chief Clerk “Papenka,” and
occasionally kissed “Papenka’s” hand. In fact, every one at the office
supposed that, at the end of February (i.e. before the beginning of Lent)
there would take place a wedding. Nay, the surly father even began to
agitate with the authorities on Chichikov’s behalf, and so enabled our hero,
on a vacancy occurring, to attain the stool of a Chief Clerk. Apparently this
marked the consummation of Chichikov’s relations with his host, for he
hastened stealthily to pack his trunk and, the next day, figured in a fresh
lodging. Also, he ceased to call the Chief Clerk “Papenka,” or to kiss his
hand; and the matter of the wedding came to as abrupt a termination as
though it had never been mooted. Yet also he never failed to press his late
host’s hand, whenever he met him, and to invite him to tea; while, on the

other hand, for all his immobility and dry indifference, the Chief Clerk
never failed to shake his head with a muttered, “Ah, my fine fellow, you
have grown too proud, you have grown too proud.”
The foregoing constituted the most difficult step that our hero had to
negotiate. Thereafter things came with greater ease and swifter success.
Everywhere he attracted notice, for he developed within himself everything
necessary for this world—namely, charm of manner and bearing, and great
diligence in business matters. Armed with these resources, he next obtained
promotion to what is known as “a fat post,” and used it to the best
advantage; and even though, at that period, strict inquiry had begun to be
made into the whole subject of bribes, such inquiry failed to alarm him—
nay, he actually turned it to account and thereby manifested the Russian
resourcefulness which never fails to attain its zenith where extortion is
concerned. His method of working was the following. As soon as a
petitioner or a suitor put his hand into his pocket, to extract thence the
necessary letters of recommendation for signature, Chichikov would
smilingly exclaim as he detained his interlocutor’s hand: “No, no! Surely
you do not think that I—? But no, no! It is our duty, it is our obligation, and
we do not require rewards for doing our work properly. So far as YOUR
matter is concerned, you may rest easy. Everything shall be carried through
to-morrow. But may I have your address? There is no need to trouble
yourself, seeing that the documents can easily be brought to you at your
residence.” Upon which the delighted suitor would return home in raptures,
thinking: “Here, at long last, is the sort of man so badly needed. A man of
that kind is a jewel beyond price.” Yet for a day, for two days—nay, even
for three—the suitor would wait in vain so far as any messengers with
documents were concerned. Then he would repair to the office—to find that
his business had not so much as been entered upon! Lastly, he would
confront the “jewel beyond price.” “Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” Chichikov
would exclaim in the politest of tones as he seized and grasped the visitor’s
hands. “The truth is that we have SUCH a quantity of business on hand! But
the matter shall be put through to-morrow, and in the meanwhile I am most
sorry about it.” And with this would go the most fascinating of gestures. Yet
neither on the morrow, nor on the day following, nor on the third would
documents arrive at the suitor’s abode. Upon that he would take thought as
to whether something more ought not to have been done; and, sure enough,
on his making inquiry, he would be informed that “something will have to

be given to the copyists.” “Well, there can be no harm in that,” he would
reply. “As a matter of fact, I have ready a tchetvertak 39 or two.” “Oh, no,
no,” the answer would come. “Not a tchetvertak per copyist, but a rouble, is
the fee.” “What? A rouble per copyist?” “Certainly. What is there to
grumble at in that? Of the money the copyists will receive a tchetvertak
apiece, and the rest will go to the Government.” Upon that the disillusioned
suitor would fly out upon the new order of things brought about by the
inquiry into illicit fees, and curse both the tchinovniks and their uppish,
insolent behaviour. “Once upon a time,” would the suitor lament, “one DID
know what to do. Once one had tipped the Director a bank-note, one’s affair
was, so to speak, in the hat. But now one has to pay a rouble per copyist
after waiting a week because otherwise it was impossible to guess how the
wind might set! The devil fly away with all ‘disinterested’ and ‘trustworthy’
tchinovniks!” And certainly the aggrieved suitor had reason to grumble,
seeing that, now that bribe-takers had ceased to exist, and Directors had
uniformly become men of honour and integrity, secretaries and clerks ought
not with impunity to have continued their thievish ways. In time there
opened out to Chichikov a still wider field, for a Commission was
appointed to supervise the erection of a Government building, and, on his
being nominated to that body, he proved himself one of its most active
members. The Commission got to work without delay, but for a space of six
years had some trouble with the building in question. Either the climate
hindered operations or the materials used were of the kind which prevents
official edifices from ever rising higher than the basement. But, meanwhile,
OTHER quarters of the town saw arise, for each member of the
Commission, a handsome house of the NON-official style of architecture.
Clearly the foundation afforded by the soil of those parts was better than
that where the Government building was still engaged in hanging fire!
Likewise the members of the Commission began to look exceedingly
prosperous, and to blossom out into family life; and, for the first time in his
existence, even Chichikov also departed from the iron laws of his self-
imposed restraint and inexorable self-denial, and so far mitigated his
heretofore asceticism as to show himself a man not averse to those
amenities which, during his youth, he had been capable of renouncing. That
is to say, certain superfluities began to make their appearance in his
establishment. He engaged a good cook, took to wearing linen shirts,
bought for himself cloth of a pattern worn by no one else in the province,

figured in checks shot with the brightest of reds and browns, fitted himself
out with two splendid horses (which he drove with a single pair of reins,
added to a ring attachment for the trace horse), developed a habit of
washing with a sponge dipped in eau-de-Cologne, and invested in soaps of
the most expensive quality, in order to communicate to his skin a more
elegant polish.
But suddenly there appeared upon the scene a new Director—a military
man, and a martinet as regarded his hostility to bribe-takers and anything
which might be called irregular. On the very day after his arrival he struck
fear into every breast by calling for accounts, discovering hosts of deficits
and missing sums, and directing his attention to the aforesaid fine houses of
civilian architecture. Upon that there ensued a complete reshuffling.
Tchinovniks were retired wholesale, and the houses were sequestrated to the
Government, or else converted into various pious institutions and schools
for soldiers’ children. Thus the whole fabric, and especially Chichikov,
came crashing to the ground. Particularly did our hero’s agreeable face
displease the new Director. Why that was so it is impossible to say, but
frequently, in cases of the kind, no reason exists. However, the Director
conceived a mortal dislike to him, and also extended that enmity to the
whole of Chichikov’s colleagues. But inasmuch as the said Director was a
military man, he was not fully acquainted with the myriad subtleties of the
civilian mind; wherefore it was not long before, by dint of maintaining a
discreet exterior, added to a faculty for humouring all and sundry, a fresh
gang of tchinovniks succeeded in restoring him to mildness, and the
General found himself in the hands of greater thieves than before, but
thieves whom he did not even suspect, seeing that he believed himself to
have selected men fit and proper, and even ventured to boast of possessing a
keen eye for talent. In a trice the tchinovniks concerned appraised his spirit
and character; with the result that the entire sphere over which he ruled
became an agency for the detection of irregularities. Everywhere, and in
every case, were those irregularities pursued as a fisherman pursues a fat
sturgeon with a gaff; and to such an extent did the sport prove successful
that almost in no time each participator in the hunt was seen to be in
possession of several thousand roubles of capital. Upon that a large number
of the former band of tchinovniks also became converted to paths of
rectitude, and were allowed to re-enter the Service; but not by hook or by
crook could Chichikov worm his way back, even though, incited thereto by

sundry items of paper currency, the General’s first secretary and principal
bear leader did all he could on our hero’s behalf. It seemed that the General
was the kind of man who, though easily led by the nose (provided it was
done without his knowledge) no sooner got an idea into his head than it
stuck there like a nail, and could not possibly be extracted; and all that the
wily secretary succeeded in procuring was the tearing up of a certain dirty
fragment of paper—even that being effected only by an appeal to the
General’s compassion, on the score of the unhappy fate which, otherwise,
would befall Chichikov’s wife and children (who, luckily, had no existence
in fact).
“Well,” said Chichikov to himself, “I have done my best, and now
everything has failed. Lamenting my misfortune won’t help me, but only
action.” And with that he decided to begin his career anew, and once more
to arm himself with the weapons of patience and self-denial. The better to
effect this, he had, of course to remove to another town. Yet somehow, for a
while, things miscarried. More than once he found himself forced to
exchange one post for another, and at the briefest of notice; and all of them
were posts of the meanest, the most wretched, order. Yet, being a man of the
utmost nicety of feeling, the fact that he found himself rubbing shoulders
with anything but nice companions did not prevent him from preserving
intact his innate love of what was decent and seemly, or from cherishing the
instinct which led him to hanker after office fittings of lacquered wood,
with neatness and orderliness everywhere. Nor did he at any time permit a
foul word to creep into his speech, and would feel hurt even if in the speech
of others there occurred a scornful reference to anything which pertained to
rank and dignity. Also, the reader will be pleased to know that our hero
changed his linen every other day, and in summer, when the weather was
very hot, EVERY day, seeing that the very faintest suspicion of an
unpleasant odour offended his fastidiousness. For the same reason it was his
custom, before being valeted by Petrushka, always to plug his nostrils with
a couple of cloves. In short, there were many occasions when his nerves
suffered rackings as cruel as a young girl’s, and so helped to increase his
disgust at having once more to associate with men who set no store by the
decencies of life. Yet, though he braced himself to the task, this period of
adversity told upon his health, and he even grew a trifle shabby. More than
once, on happening to catch sight of himself in the mirror, he could not
forbear exclaiming: “Holy Mother of God, but what a nasty-looking brute I

have become!” and for a long while afterwards could not with anything like
sang-froid contemplate his reflection. Yet throughout he bore up stoutly and
patiently—and ended by being transferred to the Customs Department. It
may be said that the department had long constituted the secret goal of his
ambition, for he had noted the foreign elegancies with which its officials
always contrived to provide themselves, and had also observed that
invariably they were able to send presents of china and cambric to their
sisters and aunts—well, to their lady friends generally. Yes, more than once
he had said to himself with a sigh: “THAT is the department to which I
ought to belong, for, given a town near the frontier, and a sensible set of
colleagues, I might be able to fit myself out with excellent linen shirts.”
Also, it may be said that most frequently of all had his thoughts turned
towards a certain quality of French soap which imparted a peculiar
whiteness to the skin and a peerless freshness to the cheeks. Its name is
known to God alone, but at least it was to be procured only in the
immediate neighbourhood of the frontier. So, as I say, Chichikov had long
felt a leaning towards the Customs, but for a time had been restrained from
applying for the same by the various current advantages of the Building
Commission; since rightly he had adjudged the latter to constitute a bird in
the hand, and the former to constitute only a bird in the bush. But now he
decided that, come what might, into the Customs he must make his way.
And that way he made, and then applied himself to his new duties with a
zeal born of the fact that he realised that fortune had specially marked him
out for a Customs officer. Indeed, such activity, perspicuity, and ubiquity as
his had never been seen or thought of. Within four weeks at the most he had
so thoroughly got his hand in that he was conversant with Customs
procedure in every detail. Not only could he weigh and measure, but also he
could divine from an invoice how many arshins of cloth or other material a
given piece contained, and then, taking a roll of the latter in his hand, could
specify at once the number of pounds at which it would tip the scale. As for
searchings, well, even his colleagues had to admit that he possessed the
nose of a veritable bloodhound, and that it was impossible not to marvel at
the patience wherewith he would try every button of the suspected person,
yet preserve, throughout, a deadly politeness and an icy sang-froid which
surpass belief. And while the searched were raging, and foaming at the
mouth, and feeling that they would give worlds to alter his smiling exterior
with a good, resounding slap, he would move not a muscle of his face, nor

abate by a jot the urbanity of his demeanour, as he murmured, “Do you
mind so far incommoding yourself as to stand up?” or “Pray step into the
next room, madam, where the wife of one of our staff will attend you,” or
“Pray allow me to slip this penknife of mine into the lining of your coat”
(after which he would extract thence shawls and towels with as much
nonchalance as he would have done from his own travelling-trunk). Even
his superiors acknowledged him to be a devil at the job, rather than a human
being, so perfect was his instinct for looking into cart-wheels, carriage-
poles, horses’ ears, and places whither an author ought not to penetrate even
in thought—places whither only a Customs official is permitted to go. The
result was that the wretched traveller who had just crossed the frontier
would, within a few minutes, become wholly at sea, and, wiping away the
perspiration, and breaking out into body flushes, would be reduced to
crossing himself and muttering, “Well, well, well!” In fact, such a traveller
would feel in the position of a schoolboy who, having been summoned to
the presence of the headmaster for the ostensible purpose of being given an
order, has found that he receives, instead, a sound flogging. In short, for
some time Chichikov made it impossible for smugglers to earn a living. In
particular, he reduced Polish Jewry almost to despair, so invincible, so
almost unnatural, was the rectitude, the incorruptibility which led him to
refrain from converting himself into a small capitalist with the aid of
confiscated goods and articles which, “to save excessive clerical labour,”
had failed to be handed over to the Government. Also, without saying it
goes that such phenomenally zealous and disinterested service attracted
general astonishment, and, eventually, the notice of the authorities;
whereupon he received promotion, and followed that up by mooting a
scheme for the infallible detection of contrabandists, provided that he could
be furnished with the necessary authority for carrying out the same. At once
such authority was accorded him, as also unlimited power to conduct every
species of search and investigation. And that was all he wanted. It happened
that previously there had been formed a well-found association for
smuggling on regular, carefully prepared lines, and that this daring scheme
seemed to promise profit to the extent of some millions of money: yet,
though he had long had knowledge of it, Chichikov had said to the
association’s emissaries, when sent to buy him over, “The time is not yet.”
But now that he had got all the reins into his hands, he sent word of the fact
to the gang, and with it the remark, “The time is NOW.” Nor was he wrong

in his calculations, for, within the space of a year, he had acquired what he
could not have made during twenty years of non-fraudulent service. With
similar sagacity he had, during his early days in the department, declined
altogether to enter into relations with the association, for the reason that he
had then been a mere cipher, and would have come in for nothing large in
the way of takings; but now—well, now it was another matter altogether,
and he could dictate what terms he liked. Moreover, that the affair might
progress the more smoothly, he suborned a fellow tchinovnik of the type
which, in spite of grey hairs, stands powerless against temptation; and, the
contract concluded, the association duly proceeded to business. Certainly
business began brilliantly. But probably most of my readers are familiar
with the oft-repeated story of the passage of Spanish sheep across the
frontier in double fleeces which carried between their outer layers and their
inner enough lace of Brabant to sell to the tune of millions of roubles;
wherefore I will not recount the story again beyond saying that those
journeys took place just when Chichikov had become head of the Customs,
and that, had he not a hand in the enterprise, not all the Jews in the world
could have brought it to success. By the time that three or four of these
ovine invasions had taken place, Chichikov and his accomplice had come to
be the possessors of four hundred thousand roubles apiece; while some even
aver that the former’s gains totalled half a million, owing to the greater
industry which he had displayed in the matter. Nor can any one but God say
to what a figure the fortunes of the pair might not eventually have attained,
had not an awkward contretemps cut right across their arrangements. That is
to say, for some reason or another the devil so far deprived these
tchinovnik-conspirators of sense as to make them come to words with one
another, and then to engage in a quarrel. Beginning with a heated argument,
this quarrel reached the point of Chichikov—who was, possibly, a trifle
tipsy—calling his colleague a priest’s son; and though that description of
the person so addressed was perfectly accurate, he chose to take offence,
and to answer Chichikov with the words (loudly and incisively uttered), “It
is YOU who have a priest for your father,” and to add to that (the more to
incense his companion), “Yes, mark you! THAT is how it is.” Yet, though
he had thus turned the tables upon Chichikov with a tu quoque, and then
capped that exploit with the words last quoted, the offended tchinovnik
could not remain satisfied, but went on to send in an anonymous document
to the authorities. On the other hand, some aver that it was over a woman

that the pair fell out—over a woman who, to quote the phrase then current
among the staff of the Customs Department, was “as fresh and as strong as
the pulp of a turnip,” and that night-birds were hired to assault our hero in a
dark alley, and that the scheme miscarried, and that in any case both
Chichikov and his friend had been deceived, seeing that the person to whom
the lady had really accorded her favours was a certain staff-captain named
Shamsharev. However, only God knows the truth of the matter. Let the
inquisitive reader ferret it out for himself. The fact remains that a complete
exposure of the dealings with the contrabandists followed, and that the two
tchinovniks were put to the question, deprived of their property, and made
to formulate in writing all that they had done. Against this thunderbolt of
fortune the State Councillor could make no headway, and in some retired
spot or another sank into oblivion; but Chichikov put a brave face upon the
matter, for, in spite of the authorities’ best efforts to smell out his gains, he
had contrived to conceal a portion of them, and also resorted to every subtle
trick of intellect which could possibly be employed by an experienced man
of the world who has a wide knowledge of his fellows. Nothing which
could be effected by pleasantness of demeanour, by moving oratory, by
clouds of flattery, and by the occasional insertion of a coin into a palm did
he leave undone; with the result that he was retired with less ignominy than
was his companion, and escaped actual trial on a criminal charge. Yet he
issued stripped of all his capital, stripped of his imported effects, stripped of
everything. That is to say, all that remained to him consisted of ten thousand
roubles which he had stored against a rainy day, two dozen linen shirts, a
small britchka of the type used by bachelors, and two serving-men named
Selifan and Petrushka. Yes, and an impulse of kindness moved the
tchinovniks of the Customs also to set aside for him a few cakes of the soap
which he had found so excellent for the freshness of the cheeks. Thus once
more our hero found himself stranded. And what an accumulation of
misfortunes had descended upon his head!—though, true, he termed them
“suffering in the Service in the cause of Truth.” Certainly one would have
thought that, after these buffetings and trials and changes of fortune—after
this taste of the sorrows of life—he and his precious ten thousand roubles
would have withdrawn to some peaceful corner in a provincial town, where,
clad in a stuff dressing-gown, he could have sat and listened to the peasants
quarrelling on festival days, or (for the sake of a breath of fresh air) have
gone in person to the poulterer’s to finger chickens for soup, and so have

spent a quiet, but not wholly useless, existence; but nothing of the kind took
place, and therein we must do justice to the strength of his character. In
other words, although he had undergone what, to the majority of men,
would have meant ruin and discouragement and a shattering of ideals, he
still preserved his energy. True, downcast and angry, and full of resentment
against the world in general, he felt furious with the injustice of fate, and
dissatisfied with the dealings of men; yet he could not forbear courting
additional experiences. In short, the patience which he displayed was such
as to make the wooden persistency of the German—a persistency merely
due to the slow, lethargic circulation of the Teuton’s blood—seem nothing
at all, seeing that by nature Chichikov’s blood flowed strongly, and that he
had to employ much force of will to curb within himself those elements
which longed to burst forth and revel in freedom. He thought things over,
and, as he did so, a certain spice of reason appeared in his reflections.
“How have I come to be what I am?” he said to himself. “Why has
misfortune overtaken me in this way? Never have I wronged a poor person,
or robbed a widow, or turned any one out of doors: I have always been
careful only to take advantage of those who possess more than their share.
Moreover, I have never gleaned anywhere but where every one else was
gleaning; and, had I not done so, others would have gleaned in my place.
Why, then, should those others be prospering, and I be sunk as low as a
worm? What am I? What am I good for? How can I, in future, hope to look
any honest father of a family in the face? How shall I escape being tortured
with the thought that I am cumbering the ground? What, in the years to
come, will my children say, save that ‘our father was a brute, for he left us
nothing to live upon?’”
Here I may remark that we have seen how much thought Chichikov
devoted to his future descendants. Indeed, had not there been constantly
recurring to his mind the insistent question, “What will my children say?”
he might not have plunged into the affair so deeply. Nevertheless, like a
wary cat which glances hither and thither to see whether its mistress be not
coming before it can make off with whatsoever first falls to its paw (butter,
fat, lard, a duck, or anything else), so our future founder of a family
continued, though weeping and bewailing his lot, to let not a single detail
escape his eye. That is to say, he retained his wits ever in a state of activity,
and kept his brain constantly working. All that he required was a plan. Once
more he pulled himself together, once more he embarked upon a life of toil,

once more he stinted himself in everything, once more he left clean and
decent surroundings for a dirty, mean existence. In other words, until
something better should turn up, he embraced the calling of an ordinary
attorney—a calling which, not then possessed of a civic status, was jostled
on very side, enjoyed little respect at the hands of the minor legal fry (or,
indeed, at its own), and perforce met with universal slights and rudeness.
But sheer necessity compelled Chichikov to face these things. Among
commissions entrusted to him was that of placing in the hands of the Public
Trustee several hundred peasants who belonged to a ruined estate. The
estate had reached its parlous condition through cattle disease, through
rascally bailiffs, through failures of the harvest, through such epidemic
diseases that had killed off the best workmen, and, last, but not least,
through the senseless conduct of the owner himself, who had furnished a
house in Moscow in the latest style, and then squandered his every kopeck,
so that nothing was left for his further maintenance, and it became
necessary to mortgage the remains—including the peasants—of the estate.
In those days mortgage to the Treasury was an innovation looked upon with
reserve, and, as attorney in the matter, Chichikov had first of all to
“entertain” every official concerned (we know that, unless that be
previously done, unless a whole bottle of madeira first be emptied down
each clerical throat, not the smallest legal affair can be carried through), and
to explain, for the barring of future attachments, that half of the peasants
were dead.
“And are they entered on the revision lists?” asked the secretary. “Yes,”
replied Chichikov. “Then what are you boggling at?” continued the
Secretary. “Should one soul die, another will be born, and in time grow up
to take the first one’s place.” Upon that there dawned on our hero one of the
most inspired ideas which ever entered the human brain. “What a simpleton
I am!” he thought to himself. “Here am I looking about for my mittens
when all the time I have got them tucked into my belt. Why, were I myself
to buy up a few souls which are dead—to buy them before a new revision
list shall have been made, the Council of Public Trust might pay me two
hundred roubles apiece for them, and I might find myself with, say, a
capital of two hundred thousand roubles! The present moment is
particularly propitious, since in various parts of the country there has been
an epidemic, and, glory be to God, a large number of souls have died of it.
Nowadays landowners have taken to card-playing and junketting and

wasting their money, or to joining the Civil Service in St. Petersburg;
consequently their estates are going to rack and ruin, and being managed in
any sort of fashion, and succeeding in paying their dues with greater
difficulty each year. That being so, not a man of the lot but would gladly
surrender to me his dead souls rather than continue paying the poll-tax; and
in this fashion I might make—well, not a few kopecks. Of course there are
difficulties, and, to avoid creating a scandal, I should need to employ plenty
of finesse; but man was given his brain to USE, not to neglect. One good
point about the scheme is that it will seem so improbable that in case of an
accident, no one in the world will believe in it. True, it is illegal to buy or
mortgage peasants without land, but I can easily pretend to be buying them
only for transferment elsewhere. Land is to be acquired in the provinces of
Taurida and Kherson almost for nothing, provided that one undertakes
subsequently to colonise it; so to Kherson I will ‘transfer’ them, and long
may they live there! And the removal of my dead souls shall be carried out
in the strictest legal form; and if the authorities should want confirmation
by testimony, I shall produce a letter signed by my own superintendent of
the Khersonian rural police—that is to say, by myself. Lastly, the supposed
village in Kherson shall be called Chichikovoe—better still Pavlovskoe,
according to my Christian name.”
In this fashion there germinated in our hero’s brain that strange scheme
for which the reader may or may not be grateful, but for which the author
certainly is so, seeing that, had it never occurred to Chichikov, this story
would never have seen the light.
After crossing himself, according to the Russian custom, Chichikov set
about carrying out his enterprise. On pretence of selecting a place wherein
to settle, he started forth to inspect various corners of the Russian Empire,
but more especially those which had suffered from such unfortunate
accidents as failures of the harvest, a high rate of mortality, or whatsoever
else might enable him to purchase souls at the lowest possible rate. But he
did not tackle his landowners haphazard: he rather selected such of them as
seemed more particularly suited to his taste, or with whom he might with
the least possible trouble conclude identical agreements; though, in the first
instance, he always tried, by getting on terms of acquaintanceship—better
still, of friendship—with them, to acquire the souls for nothing, and so to
avoid purchase at all. In passing, my readers must not blame me if the
characters whom they have encountered in these pages have not been

altogether to their liking. The fault is Chichikov’s rather than mine, for he is
the master, and where he leads we must follow. Also, should my readers
gird at me for a certain dimness and want of clarity in my principal
characters and actors, that will be tantamount to saying that never do the
broad tendency and the general scope of a work become immediately
apparent. Similarly does the entry to every town—the entry even to the
Capital itself—convey to the traveller such an impression of vagueness that
at first everything looks grey and monotonous, and the lines of smoky
factories and workshops seem never to be coming to an end; but in time
there will begin also to stand out the outlines of six-storied mansions, and
of shops and balconies, and wide perspectives of streets, and a medley of
steeples, columns, statues, and turrets—the whole framed in rattle and roar
and the infinite wonders which the hand and the brain of men have
conceived. Of the manner in which Chichikov’s first purchases were made
the reader is aware. Subsequently he will see also how the affair progressed,
and with what success or failure our hero met, and how Chichikov was
called upon to decide and to overcome even more difficult problems than
the foregoing, and by what colossal forces the levers of his far-flung tale are
moved, and how eventually the horizon will become extended until
everything assumes a grandiose and a lyrical tendency. Yes, many a verst of
road remains to be travelled by a party made up of an elderly gentleman, a
britchka of the kind affected by bachelors, a valet named Petrushka, a
coachman named Selifan, and three horses which, from the Assessor to the
skewbald, are known to us individually by name. Again, although I have
given a full description of our hero’s exterior (such as it is), I may yet be
asked for an inclusive definition also of his moral personality. That he is no
hero compounded of virtues and perfections must be already clear. Then
WHAT is he? A villain? Why should we call him a villain? Why should we
be so hard upon a fellow man? In these days our villains have ceased to
exist. Rather it would be fairer to call him an ACQUIRER. The love of
acquisition, the love of gain, is a fault common to many, and gives rise to
many and many a transaction of the kind generally known as “not strictly
honourable.” True, such a character contains an element of ugliness, and the
same reader who, on his journey through life, would sit at the board of a
character of this kind, and spend a most agreeable time with him, would be
the first to look at him askance if he should appear in the guise of the hero
of a novel or a play. But wise is the reader who, on meeting such a

character, scans him carefully, and, instead of shrinking from him with
distaste, probes him to the springs of his being. The human personality
contains nothing which may not, in the twinkling of an eye, become
altogether changed—nothing in which, before you can look round, there
may not spring to birth some cankerous worm which is destined to suck
thence the essential juice. Yes, it is a common thing to see not only an
overmastering passion, but also a passion of the most petty order, arise in a
man who was born to better things, and lead him both to forget his greatest
and most sacred obligations, and to see only in the veriest trifles the Great
and the Holy. For human passions are as numberless as is the sand of the
seashore, and go on to become his most insistent of masters. Happy,
therefore, the man who may choose from among the gamut of human
passions one which is noble! Hour by hour will that instinct grow and
multiply in its measureless beneficence; hour by hour will it sink deeper
and deeper into the infinite paradise of his soul. But there are passions of
which a man cannot rid himself, seeing that they are born with him at his
birth, and he has no power to abjure them. Higher powers govern those
passions, and in them is something which will call to him, and refuse to be
silenced, to the end of his life. Yes, whether in a guise of darkness, or
whether in a guise which will become converted into a light to lighten the
world, they will and must attain their consummation on life’s field: and in
either case they have been evoked for man’s good. In the same way may the
passion which drew our Chichikov onwards have been one that was
independent of himself; in the same way may there have lurked even in his
cold essence something which will one day cause men to humble
themselves in the dust before the infinite wisdom of God.
Yet that folk should be dissatisfied with my hero matters nothing. What
matters is the fact that, under different circumstances, their approval could
have been taken as a foregone conclusion. That is to say, had not the author
pried over-deeply into Chichikov’s soul, nor stirred up in its depths what
shunned and lay hidden from the light, nor disclosed those of his hero’s
thoughts which that hero would have not have disclosed even to his most
intimate friend; had the author, indeed, exhibited Chichikov just as he
exhibited himself to the townsmen of N. and Manilov and the rest; well,
then we may rest assured that every reader would have been delighted with
him, and have voted him a most interesting person. For it is not nearly so
necessary that Chichikov should figure before the reader as though his form