“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.