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 were 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.”
Whit 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.”
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.