Dead Souls

hy do I so persistently paint the poverty, the imperfections of Russian
life, and delve into the remotest depths, the most retired holes and
corners, of our Empire for my subjects? The answer is that there is
nothing else to be done when an author’s idiosyncrasy happens to incline
him that way. So again we find ourselves in a retired spot. But what a
spot!

Imagine, if you can, a mountain range like a gigantic fortress, with
embrasures and bastions which appear to soar a thousand versts towards
the heights of heaven, and, towering grandly over a boundless expanse
of plain, are broken up into precipitous, overhanging limestone cliffs.
Here and there those cliffs are seamed with water-courses and gullies,
while at other points they are rounded off into spurs of green--spurs
now coated with fleece-like tufts of young undergrowth, now studded with
the stumps of felled trees, now covered with timber which has, by some
miracle, escaped the woodman’s axe. Also, a river winds awhile between
its banks, then leaves the meadow land, divides into runlets (all
flashing in the sun like fire), plunges, re-united, into the midst of a
thicket of elder, birch, and pine, and, lastly, speeds triumphantly past
bridges and mills and weirs which seem to be lying in wait for it at
every turn.

At one particular spot the steep flank of the mountain range is covered
with billowy verdure of denser growth than the rest; and here the aid of
skilful planting, added to the shelter afforded by a rugged ravine, has
enabled the flora of north and south so to be brought together that,
twined about with sinuous hop-tendrils, the oak, the spruce fir, the
wild pear, the maple, the cherry, the thorn, and the mountain ash either
assist or check one another’s growth, and everywhere cover the declivity
with their straggling profusion. Also, at the edge of the summit there
can be seen mingling with the green of the trees the red roofs of a
manorial homestead, while behind the upper stories of the mansion proper
and its carved balcony and a great semi-circular window there gleam the
tiles and gables of some peasants’ huts. Lastly, over this combination
of trees and roofs there rises--overtopping everything with its gilded,
sparkling steeple--an old village church. On each of its pinnacles a
cross of carved gilt is stayed with supports of similar gilding and
design; with the result that from a distance the gilded portions
have the effect of hanging without visible agency in the air. And
the whole--the three successive tiers of woodland, roofs, and crosses
whole--lies exquisitely mirrored in the river below, where hollow
willows, grotesquely shaped (some of them rooted on the river’s banks,
and some in the water itself, and all drooping their branches until
their leaves have formed a tangle with the water lilies which float on
the surface), seem to be gazing at the marvellous reflection at their
feet.

Thus the view from below is beautiful indeed. But the view from above
is even better. No guest, no visitor, could stand on the balcony of the
mansion and remain indifferent. So boundless is the panorama revealed
that surprise would cause him to catch at his breath, and exclaim: “Lord
of Heaven, but what a prospect!” Beyond meadows studded with spinneys
and water-mills lie forests belted with green; while beyond, again,
there can be seen showing through the slightly misty air strips of
yellow heath, and, again, wide-rolling forests (as blue as the sea or a
cloud), and more heath, paler than the first, but still yellow. Finally,
on the far horizon a range of chalk-topped hills gleams white, even in
dull weather, as though it were lightened with perpetual sunshine;
and here and there on the dazzling whiteness of its lower slopes some
plaster-like, nebulous patches represent far-off villages which lie
too remote for the eye to discern their details. Indeed, only when the
sunlight touches a steeple to gold does one realise that each such
patch is a human settlement. Finally, all is wrapped in an immensity of
silence which even the far, faint echoes of persons singing in the void
of the plain cannot shatter.

Even after gazing at the spectacle for a couple of hours or so, the
visitor would still find nothing to say, save: “Lord of Heaven, but
what a prospect!” Then who is the dweller in, the proprietor of, this
manor--a manor to which, as to an impregnable fortress, entrance cannot
be gained from the side where we have been standing, but only from the
other approach, where a few scattered oaks offer hospitable welcome to
the visitor, and then, spreading above him their spacious branches (as
in friendly embrace), accompany him to the facade of the mansion whose
top we have been regarding from the reverse aspect, but which now stands
frontwise on to us, and has, on one side of it, a row of peasants’ huts
with red tiles and carved gables, and, on the other, the village church,
with those glittering golden crosses and gilded open-work charms which
seem to hang suspended in the air? Yes, indeed!--to what fortunate
individual does this corner of the world belong? It belongs to Andrei
Ivanovitch Tientietnikov, landowner of the canton of Tremalakhan, and,
withal, a bachelor of about thirty.

Should my lady readers ask of me what manner of man is Tientietnikov,
and what are his attributes and peculiarities, I should refer them
to his neighbours. Of these, a member of the almost extinct tribe
of intelligent staff officers on the retired list once summed up
Tientietnikov in the phrase, “He is an absolute blockhead;” while a
General who resided ten versts away was heard to remark that “he is a
young man who, though not exactly a fool, has at least too much crowded
into his head. I myself might have been of use to him, for not only do
I maintain certain connections with St. Petersburg, but also--” And the
General left his sentence unfinished. Thirdly, a captain-superintendent
of rural police happened to remark in the course of conversation:
“To-morrow I must go and see Tientietnikov about his arrears.” Lastly,
a peasant of Tientietnikov’s own village, when asked what his barin was
like, returned no answer at all. All of which would appear to show that
Tientietnikov was not exactly looked upon with favour.

To speak dispassionately, however, he was not a bad sort of
fellow--merely a star-gazer; and since the world contains many watchers
of the skies, why should Tientietnikov not have been one of them?
However, let me describe in detail a specimen day of his existence--one
that will closely resemble the rest, and then the reader will be enabled
to judge of Tientietnikov’s character, and how far his life corresponded
to the beauties of nature with which he lived surrounded.

On the morning of the specimen day in question he awoke very late, and,
raising himself to a sitting posture, rubbed his eyes. And since those
eyes were small, the process of rubbing them occupied a very long time,
and throughout its continuance there stood waiting by the door his
valet, Mikhailo, armed with a towel and basin. For one hour, for two
hours, did poor Mikhailo stand there: then he departed to the kitchen,
and returned to find his master still rubbing his eyes as he sat on the
bed. At length, however, Tientietnikov rose, washed himself, donned a
dressing-gown, and moved into the drawing-room for morning tea, coffee,
cocoa, and warm milk; of all of which he partook but sparingly, while
munching a piece of bread, and scattering tobacco ash with complete
insouciance. Two hours did he sit over this meal, then poured himself
out another cup of the rapidly cooling tea, and walked to the window.
This faced the courtyard, and outside it, as usual, there took place the
following daily altercation between a serf named Grigory (who purported
to act as butler) and the housekeeper, Perfilievna.

Grigory. Ah, you nuisance, you good-for-nothing, you had better hold
your stupid tongue.

Perfilievna. Yes; and don’t you wish that I would?

Grigory. What? You so thick with that bailiff of yours, you housekeeping
jade!

Perfilievna. Nay, he is as big a thief as you are. Do you think the
barin doesn’t know you? And there he is! He must have heard everything!

Grigory. Where?

Perfilievna. There--sitting by the window, and looking at us!

Next, to complete the hubbub, a serf child which had been clouted by its
mother broke out into a bawl, while a borzoi puppy which had happened
to get splashed with boiling water by the cook fell to yelping
vociferously. In short, the place soon became a babel of shouts and
squeals, and, after watching and listening for a time, the barin found
it so impossible to concentrate his mind upon anything that he sent out
word that the noise would have to be abated.

The next item was that, a couple of hours before luncheon time, he
withdrew to his study, to set about employing himself upon a weighty
work which was to consider Russia from every point of view: from the
political, from the philosophical, and from the religious, as well as to
resolve various problems which had arisen to confront the Empire, and to
define clearly the great future to which the country stood ordained. In
short, it was to be the species of compilation in which the man of the
day so much delights. Yet the colossal undertaking had progressed but
little beyond the sphere of projection, since, after a pen had been
gnawed awhile, and a few strokes had been committed to paper, the whole
would be laid aside in favour of the reading of some book; and that
reading would continue also during luncheon and be followed by the
lighting of a pipe, the playing of a solitary game of chess, and the
doing of more or less nothing for the rest of the day.

The foregoing will give the reader a pretty clear idea of the manner in
which it was possible for this man of thirty-three to waste his time.
Clad constantly in slippers and a dressing-gown, Tientietnikov never
went out, never indulged in any form of dissipation, and never walked
upstairs. Nothing did he care for fresh air, and would bestow not a
passing glance upon all those beauties of the countryside which moved
visitors to such ecstatic admiration. From this the reader will see that
Andrei Ivanovitch Tientietnikov belonged to that band of sluggards whom
we always have with us, and who, whatever be their present appellation,
used to be known by the nicknames of “lollopers,” “bed pressers,” and
“marmots.” Whether the type is a type originating at birth, or a type
resulting from untoward circumstances in later life, it is impossible to
say. A better course than to attempt to answer that question would be to
recount the story of Tientietnikov’s boyhood and upbringing.

Everything connected with the latter seemed to promise success, for at
twelve years of age the boy--keen-witted, but dreamy of temperament, and
inclined to delicacy--was sent to an educational establishment presided
over by an exceptional type of master. The idol of his pupils, and the
admiration of his assistants, Alexander Petrovitch was gifted with
an extraordinary measure of good sense. How thoroughly he knew the
peculiarities of the Russian of his day! How well he understood boys!
How capable he was of drawing them out! Not a practical joker in the
school but, after perpetrating a prank, would voluntarily approach his
preceptor and make to him free confession. True, the preceptor would
put a stern face upon the matter, yet the culprit would depart with head
held higher, not lower, than before, since in Alexander Petrovitch
there was something which heartened--something which seemed to say to a
delinquent: “Forward you! Rise to your feet again, even though you have
fallen!” Not lectures on good behaviour was it, therefore, that fell
from his lips, but rather the injunction, “I want to see intelligence,
and nothing else. The boy who devotes his attention to becoming clever
will never play the fool, for under such circumstances, folly disappears
of itself.” And so folly did, for the boy who failed to strive in the
desired direction incurred the contempt of all his comrades, and even
dunces and fools of senior standing did not dare to raise a finger when
saluted by their juniors with opprobrious epithets. Yet “This is too
much,” certain folk would say to Alexander. “The result will be that
your students will turn out prigs.” “But no,” he would reply. “Not at
all. You see, I make it my principle to keep the incapables for a single
term only, since that is enough for them; but to the clever ones I allot
a double course of instruction.” And, true enough, any lad of brains was
retained for this finishing course. Yet he did not repress all boyish
playfulness, since he declared it to be as necessary as a rash to a
doctor, inasmuch as it enabled him to diagnose what lay hidden within.

Consequently, how the boys loved him! Never was there such an attachment
between master and pupils. And even later, during the foolish years,
when foolish things attract, the measure of affection which Alexander
Petrovitch retained was extraordinary. In fact, to the day of his death,
every former pupil would celebrate the birthday of his late master by
raising his glass in gratitude to the mentor dead and buried--then close
his eyelids upon the tears which would come trickling through them.
Even the slightest word of encouragement from Alexander Petrovitch could
throw a lad into a transport of tremulous joy, and arouse in him an
honourable emulation of his fellows. Boys of small capacity he did
not long retain in his establishment; whereas those who possessed
exceptional talent he put through an extra course of schooling. This
senior class--a class composed of specially-selected pupils--was a very
different affair from what usually obtains in other colleges. Only when
a boy had attained its ranks did Alexander demand of him what other
masters indiscreetly require of mere infants--namely the superior
frame of mind which, while never indulging in mockery, can itself bear
ridicule, and disregard the fool, and keep its temper, and repress
itself, and eschew revenge, and calmly, proudly retain its tranquillity
of soul. In short, whatever avails to form a boy into a man of assured
character, that did Alexander Petrovitch employ during the pupil’s
youth, as well as constantly put him to the test. How well he understood
the art of life!

Of assistant tutors he kept but few, since most of the necessary
instruction he imparted in person, and, without pedantic terminology
and inflated diction and views, could so transmit to his listeners the
inmost spirit of a lesson that even the youngest present absorbed its
essential elements. Also, of studies he selected none but those which
may help a boy to become a good citizen; and therefore most of the
lectures which he delivered consisted of discourses on what may be
awaiting a youth, as well as of such demarcations of life’s field that
the pupil, though seated, as yet, only at the desk, could beforehand
bear his part in that field both in thought and spirit. Nor did the
master CONCEAL anything. That is to say, without mincing words, he
invariably set before his hearers the sorrows and the difficulties which
may confront a man, the trials and the temptations which may beset
him. And this he did in terms as though, in every possible calling and
capacity, he himself had experienced the same. Consequently, either the
vigorous development of self-respect or the constant stimulus of the
master’s eye (which seemed to say to the pupil, “Forward!”--that word
which has become so familiar to the contemporary Russian, that word
which has worked such wonders upon his sensitive temperament); one or
the other, I repeat, would from the first cause the pupil to tackle
difficulties, and only difficulties, and to hunger for prowess only
where the path was arduous, and obstacles were many, and it was
necessary to display the utmost strength of mind. Indeed, few completed
the course of which I have spoken without issuing therefrom reliable,
seasoned fighters who could keep their heads in the most embarrassing
of official positions, and at times when older and wiser men, distracted
with the annoyances of life, had either abandoned everything or, grown
slack and indifferent, had surrendered to the bribe-takers and the
rascals. In short, no ex-pupil of Alexander Petrovitch ever wavered from
the right road, but, familiar with life and with men, armed with the
weapons of prudence, exerted a powerful influence upon wrongdoers.

For a long time past the ardent young Tientietnikov’s excitable heart
had also beat at the thought that one day he might attain the senior
class described. And, indeed, what better teacher could he have had
befall him than its preceptor? Yet just at the moment when he had been
transferred thereto, just at the moment when he had reached the coveted
position, did his instructor come suddenly by his death! This was
indeed a blow for the boy--indeed a terrible initial loss! In his eyes
everything connected with the school seemed to undergo a change--the
chief reason being the fact that to the place of the deceased headmaster
there succeeded a certain Thedor Ivanovitch, who at once began to
insist upon certain external rules, and to demand of the boys what ought
rightly to have been demanded only of adults. That is to say, since
the lads’ frank and open demeanour savoured to him only of lack
of discipline, he announced (as though in deliberate spite of his
predecessor) that he cared nothing for progress and intellect, but that
heed was to be paid only to good behaviour. Yet, curiously enough, good
behaviour was just what he never obtained, for every kind of secret
prank became the rule; and while, by day, there reigned restraint
and conspiracy, by night there began to take place chambering and
wantonness.

Also, certain changes in the curriculum of studies came about, for there
were engaged new teachers who held new views and opinions, and confused
their hearers with a multitude of new terms and phrases, and displayed
in their exposition of things both logical sequence and a zest
for modern discovery and much warmth of individual bias. Yet their
instruction, alas! contained no LIFE--in the mouths of those teachers a
dead language savoured merely of carrion. Thus everything connected with
the school underwent a radical alteration, and respect for authority
and the authorities waned, and tutors and ushers came to be dubbed “Old
Thedor,” “Crusty,” and the like. And sundry other things began to take
place--things which necessitated many a penalty and expulsion; until,
within a couple of years, no one who had known the school in former days
would now have recognised it.

Nevertheless Tientietnikov, a youth of retiring disposition, experienced
no leanings towards the nocturnal orgies of his companions, orgies
during which the latter used to flirt with damsels before the very
windows of the headmaster’s rooms, nor yet towards their mockery of
all that was sacred, simply because fate had cast in their way an
injudicious priest. No, despite its dreaminess, his soul ever remembered
its celestial origin, and could not be diverted from the path of virtue.
Yet still he hung his head, for, while his ambition had come to life,
it could find no sort of outlet. Truly ‘twere well if it had NOT come
to life, for throughout the time that he was listening to professors
who gesticulated on their chairs he could not help remembering the
old preceptor who, invariably cool and calm, had yet known how to make
himself understood. To what subjects, to what lectures, did the boy not
have to listen!--to lectures on medicine, and on philosophy, and on law,
and on a version of general history so enlarged that even three years
failed to enable the professor to do more than finish the introduction
thereto, and also the account of the development of some self-governing
towns in Germany. None of the stuff remained fixed in Tientietnikov’s
brain save as shapeless clots; for though his native intellect could not
tell him how instruction ought to be imparted, it at least told him that
THIS was not the way. And frequently, at such moments he would recall
Alexander Petrovitch, and give way to such grief that scarcely did he
know what he was doing.

But youth is fortunate in the fact that always before it there lies a
future; and in proportion as the time for his leaving school drew nigh,
Tientietnikov’s heart began to beat higher and higher, and he said to
himself: “This is not life, but only a preparation for life. True life
is to be found in the Public Service. There at least will there be scope
for activity.” So, bestowing not a glance upon that beautiful corner of
the world which never failed to strike the guest or chance visitor with
amazement, and reverencing not a whit the dust of his ancestors, he
followed the example of most ambitious men of his class by repairing to
St. Petersburg (whither, as we know, the more spirited youth of Russia
from every quarter gravitates--there to enter the Public Service, to
shine, to obtain promotion, and, in a word, to scale the topmost peaks
of that pale, cold, deceptive elevation which is known as society). But
the real starting-point of Tientietnikov’s ambition was the moment when
his uncle (one State Councillor Onifri Ivanovitch) instilled into him
the maxim that the only means to success in the Service lay in good
handwriting, and that, without that accomplishment, no one could ever
hope to become a Minister or Statesman. Thus, with great difficulty,
and also with the help of his uncle’s influence, young Tientietnikov at
length succeeded in being posted to a Department. On the day that he
was conducted into a splendid, shining hall--a hall fitted with inlaid
floors and lacquered desks as fine as though this were actually the
place where the great ones of the Empire met for discussion of the
fortunes of the State; on the day that he saw legions of handsome
gentlemen of the quill-driving profession making loud scratchings with
pens, and cocking their heads to one side; lastly on the day that he
saw himself also allotted a desk, and requested to copy a document which
appeared purposely to be one of the pettiest possible order (as a matter
of fact it related to a sum of three roubles, and had taken half a
year to produce)--well, at that moment a curious, an unwonted sensation
seized upon the inexperienced youth, for the gentlemen around him
appeared so exactly like a lot of college students. And, the further to
complete the resemblance, some of them were engaged in reading trashy
translated novels, which they kept hurriedly thrusting between the
sheets of their apportioned work whenever the Director appeared, as
though to convey the impression that it was to that work alone that they
were applying themselves. In short, the scene seemed to Tientietnikov
strange, and his former pursuits more important than his present, and
his preparation for the Service preferable to the Service itself. Yes,
suddenly he felt a longing for his old school; and as suddenly, and with
all the vividness of life, there appeared before his vision the figure
of Alexander Petrovitch. He almost burst into tears as he beheld his old
master, and the room seemed to swim before his eyes, and the tchinovniks
and the desks to become a blur, and his sight to grow dim. Then he
thought to himself with an effort: “No, no! I WILL apply myself to
my work, however petty it be at first.” And hardening his heart and
recovering his spirit, he determined then and there to perform his
duties in such a manner as should be an example to the rest.

But where are compensations to be found? Even in St. Petersburg, despite
its grim and murky exterior, they exist. Yes, even though thirty degrees
of keen, cracking frost may have bound the streets, and the family of
the North Wind be wailing there, and the Snowstorm Witch have heaped
high the pavements, and be blinding the eyes, and powdering beards and
fur collars and the shaggy manes of horses--even THEN there will be
shining hospitably through the swirling snowflakes a fourth-floor window
where, in a cosy room, and by the light of modest candles, and to the
hiss of the samovar, there will be in progress a discussion which warms
the heart and soul, or else a reading aloud of a brilliant page of one
of those inspired Russian poets with whom God has dowered us, while the
breast of each member of the company is heaving with a rapture unknown
under a noontide sky.

Gradually, therefore, Tientietnikov grew more at home in the Service.
Yet never did it become, for him, the main pursuit, the main object
in life, which he had expected. No, it remained but one of a secondary
kind. That is to say, it served merely to divide up his time, and enable
him the more to value his hours of leisure. Nevertheless, just when his
uncle was beginning to flatter himself that his nephew was destined to
succeed in the profession, the said nephew elected to ruin his every
hope. Thus it befell. Tientietnikov’s friends (he had many) included
among their number a couple of fellows of the species known as
“embittered.” That is to say, though good-natured souls of that
curiously restless type which cannot endure injustice, nor anything
which it conceives to be such, they were thoroughly unbalanced of
conduct themselves, and, while demanding general agreement with
their views, treated those of others with the scantiest of ceremony.
Nevertheless these two associates exercised upon Tientietnikov--both
by the fire of their eloquence and by the form of their noble
dissatisfaction with society--a very strong influence; with the result
that, through arousing in him an innate tendency to nervous resentment,
they led him also to notice trifles which before had escaped his
attention. An instance of this is seen in the fact that he conceived
against Thedor Thedorovitch Lienitsin, Director of one of the
Departments which was quartered in the splendid range of offices before
mentioned, a dislike which proved the cause of his discerning in the
man a host of hitherto unmarked imperfections. Above all things did
Tientietnikov take it into his head that, when conversing with his
superiors, Lienitsin became, of the moment, a stick of luscious
sweetmeat, but that, when conversing with his inferiors, he approximated
more to a vinegar cruet. Certain it is that, like all petty-minded
individuals, Lienitsin made a note of any one who failed to offer him
a greeting on festival days, and that he revenged himself upon any one
whose visiting-card had not been handed to his butler. Eventually the
youth’s aversion almost attained the point of hysteria; until he felt
that, come what might, he MUST insult the fellow in some fashion. To
that task he applied himself con amore; and so thoroughly that he met
with complete success. That is to say, he seized on an occasion to
address Lienitsin in such fashion that the delinquent received
notice either to apologise or to leave the Service; and when of these
alternatives he chose the latter his uncle came to him, and made a
terrified appeal. “For God’s sake remember what you are doing!” he
cried. “To think that, after beginning your career so well, you should
abandon it merely for the reason that you have not fallen in with the
sort of Director whom you prefer! What do you mean by it, what do you
mean by it? Were others to regard things in the same way, the Service
would find itself without a single individual. Reconsider your
conduct--forego your pride and conceit, and make Lienitsin amends.”

“But, dear Uncle,” the nephew replied, “that is not the point. The point
is, not that I should find an apology difficult to offer, seeing that,
since Lienitsin is my superior, and I ought not to have addressed him as
I did, I am clearly in the wrong. Rather, the point is the following.
To my charge there has been committed the performance of another kind of
service. That is to say, I am the owner of three hundred peasant souls,
a badly administered estate, and a fool of a bailiff. That being so,
whereas the State will lose little by having to fill my stool with
another copyist, it will lose very much by causing three hundred peasant
souls to fail in the payment of their taxes. As I say (how am I to put
it?), I am a landowner who has preferred to enter the Public Service.
Now, should I employ myself henceforth in conserving, restoring, and
improving the fortunes of the souls whom God has entrusted to my care,
and thereby provide the State with three hundred law-abiding, sober,
hard-working taxpayers, how will that service of mine rank as inferior
to the service of a department-directing fool like Lienitsin?”

On hearing this speech, the State Councillor could only gape, for he
had not expected Tientietnikov’s torrent of words. He reflected a few
moments, and then murmured:

“Yes, but, but--but how can a man like you retire to rustication in
the country? What society will you get there? Here one meets at least
a general or a prince sometimes; indeed, no matter whom you pass in the
street, that person represents gas lamps and European civilisation; but
in the country, no matter what part of it you are in, not a soul is
to be encountered save muzhiks and their women. Why should you go and
condemn yourself to a state of vegetation like that?”

Nevertheless the uncle’s expostulations fell upon deaf ears, for already
the nephew was beginning to think of his estate as a retreat of a type
more likely to nourish the intellectual faculties and afford the only
profitable field of activity. After unearthing one or two modern works
on agriculture, therefore, he, two weeks later, found himself in
the neighbourhood of the home where his boyhood had been spent, and
approaching the spot which never failed to enthral the visitor or guest.
And in the young man’s breast there was beginning to palpitate a
new feeling--in the young man’s soul there were reawakening old,
long-concealed impressions; with the result that many a spot which had
long been faded from his memory now filled him with interest, and the
beautiful views on the estate found him gazing at them like a newcomer,
and with a beating heart. Yes, as the road wound through a narrow
ravine, and became engulfed in a forest where, both above and below, he
saw three-centuries-old oaks which three men could not have spanned,
and where Siberian firs and elms overtopped even the poplars, and as
he asked the peasants to tell him to whom the forest belonged, and
they replied, “To Tientietnikov,” and he issued from the forest, and
proceeded on his way through meadows, and past spinneys of elder, and
of old and young willows, and arrived in sight of the distant range of
hills, and, crossing by two different bridges the winding river (which
he left successively to right and to left of him as he did so), he again
questioned some peasants concerning the ownership of the meadows and
the flooded lands, and was again informed that they all belonged to
Tientietnikov, and then, ascending a rise, reached a tableland where, on
one side, lay ungarnered fields of wheat and rye and barley, and, on the
other, the country already traversed (but which now showed in shortened
perspective), and then plunged into the shade of some forked, umbrageous
trees which stood scattered over turf and extended to the manor-house
itself, and caught glimpses of the carved huts of the peasants, and of
the red roofs of the stone manorial outbuildings, and of the glittering
pinnacles of the church, and felt his heart beating, and knew, without
being told by any one, whither he had at length arrived--well, then the
feeling which had been growing within his soul burst forth, and he cried
in ecstasy:

“Why have I been a fool so long? Why, seeing that fate has appointed
me to be ruler of an earthly paradise, did I prefer to bind myself in
servitude as a scribe of lifeless documents? To think that, after I had
been nurtured and schooled and stored with all the knowledge necessary
for the diffusion of good among those under me, and for the improvement
of my domain, and for the fulfilment of the manifold duties of a
landowner who is at once judge, administrator, and constable of his
people, I should have entrusted my estate to an ignorant bailiff, and
sought to maintain an absentee guardianship over the affairs of serfs
whom I have never met, and of whose capabilities and characters I am
yet ignorant! To think that I should have deemed true estate-management
inferior to a documentary, fantastical management of provinces which lie
a thousand versts away, and which my foot has never trod, and where I
could never have effected aught but blunders and irregularities!”

Meanwhile another spectacle was being prepared for him. On learning
that the barin was approaching the mansion, the muzhiks collected on
the verandah in very variety of picturesque dress and tonsure; and when
these good folk surrounded him, and there arose a resounding shout of
“Here is our Foster Father! He has remembered us!” and, in spite of
themselves, some of the older men and women began weeping as they
recalled his grandfather and great-grandfather, he himself could not
restrain his tears, but reflected: “How much affection! And in return
for what? In return for my never having come to see them--in return for
my never having taken the least interest in their affairs!” And then
and there he registered a mental vow to share their every task and
occupation.

So he applied himself to supervising and administering. He reduced the
amount of the barstchina [40], he decreased the number of working-days
for the owner, and he augmented the sum of the peasants’ leisure-time.
He also dismissed the fool of a bailiff, and took to bearing a
personal hand in everything--to being present in the fields, at the
threshing-floor, at the kilns, at the wharf, at the freighting of barges
and rafts, and at their conveyance down the river: wherefore even the
lazy hands began to look to themselves. But this did not last long. The
peasant is an observant individual, and Tientietnikov’s muzhiks soon
scented the fact that, though energetic and desirous of doing much, the
barin had no notion how to do it, nor even how to set about it--that, in
short, he spoke by the book rather than out of his personal knowledge.
Consequently things resulted, not in master and men failing to
understand one another, but in their not singing together, in their not
producing the very same note.

That is to say, it was not long before Tientietnikov noticed that on
the manorial lands, nothing prospered to the extent that it did on the
peasants’. The manorial crops were sown in good time, and came up well,
and every one appeared to work his best, so much so that Tientietnikov,
who supervised the whole, frequently ordered mugs of vodka to be served
out as a reward for the excellence of the labour performed. Yet the rye
on the peasants’ land had formed into ear, and the oats had begun to
shoot their grain, and the millet had filled before, on the manorial
lands, the corn had so much as grown to stalk, or the ears had sprouted
in embryo. In short, gradually the barin realised that, in spite of
favours conferred, the peasants were playing the rogue with him. Next he
resorted to remonstrance, but was met with the reply, “How could we not
do our best for our barin? You yourself saw how well we laboured at the
ploughing and the sowing, for you gave us mugs of vodka for our pains.”

“Then why have things turned out so badly?” the barin persisted.

“Who can say? It must be that a grub has eaten the crop from below.
Besides, what a summer has it been--never a drop of rain!”

Nevertheless, the barin noted that no grub had eaten the PEASANTS’
crops, as well as that the rain had fallen in the most curious
fashion--namely, in patches. It had obliged the muzhiks, but had shed a
mere sprinkling for the barin.

Still more difficult did he find it to deal with the peasant women.
Ever and anon they would beg to be excused from work, or start making
complaints of the severity of the barstchina. Indeed, they were terrible
folk! However, Tientietnikov abolished the majority of the tithes of
linen, hedge fruit, mushrooms, and nuts, and also reduced by one-half
other tasks proper to the women, in the hope that they would devote
their spare time to their own domestic concerns--namely, to sewing and
mending, and to making clothes for their husbands, and to increasing
the area of their kitchen gardens. Yet no such result came about. On the
contrary, such a pitch did the idleness, the quarrelsomeness, and the
intriguing and caballing of the fair sex attain that their helpmeets
were for ever coming to the barin with a request that he would rid one
or another of his wife, since she had become a nuisance, and to live
with her was impossible.

Next, hardening his heart, the barin attempted severity. But of what
avail was severity? The peasant woman remained always the peasant
woman, and would come and whine that she was sick and ailing, and keep
pitifully hugging to herself the mean and filthy rags which she had
donned for the occasion. And when poor Tientietnikov found himself
unable to say more to her than just, “Get out of my sight, and may the
Lord go with you!” the next item in the comedy would be that he would
see her, even as she was leaving his gates, fall to contending with a
neighbour for, say, the possession of a turnip, and dealing out slaps
in the face such as even a strong, healthy man could scarcely have
compassed!

Again, amongst other things, Tientietnikov conceived the idea of
establishing a school for his people; but the scheme resulted in a farce
which left him in sackcloth and ashes. In the same way he found that,
when it came to a question of dispensing justice and of adjusting
disputes, the host of juridical subtleties with which the professors had
provided him proved absolutely useless. That is to say, the one party
lied, and the other party lied, and only the devil could have decided
between them. Consequently he himself perceived that a knowledge of
mankind would have availed him more than all the legal refinements and
philosophical maxims in the world could do. He lacked something; and
though he could not divine what it was, the situation brought about was
the common one of the barin failing to understand the peasant, and the
peasant failing to understand the barin, and both becoming disaffected.
In the end, these difficulties so chilled Tientietnikov’s enthusiasm
that he took to supervising the labours of the field with greatly
diminished attention. That is to say, no matter whether the scythes were
softly swishing through the grass, or ricks were being built, or rafts
were being loaded, he would allow his eyes to wander from his men, and
to fall to gazing at, say, a red-billed, red-legged heron which, after
strutting along the bank of a stream, would have caught a fish in its
beak, and be holding it awhile, as though in doubt whether to swallow
it. Next he would glance towards the spot where a similar bird, but one
not yet in possession of a fish, was engaged in watching the doings of
its mate. Lastly, with eyebrows knitted, and face turned to scan the
zenith, he would drink in the smell of the fields, and fall to listening
to the winged population of the air as from earth and sky alike the
manifold music of winged creatures combined in a single harmonious
chorus. In the rye the quail would be calling, and, in the grass, the
corncrake, and over them would be wheeling flocks of twittering linnets.
Also, the jacksnipe would be uttering its croak, and the lark executing
its roulades where it had become lost in the sunshine, and cranes
sending forth their trumpet-like challenge as they deployed towards the
zenith in triangle-shaped flocks. In fact, the neighbourhood would seem
to have become converted into one great concert of melody. O Creator,
how fair is Thy world where, in remote, rural seclusion, it lies apart
from cities and from highways!

But soon even this began to pall upon Tientietnikov, and he ceased
altogether to visit his fields, or to do aught but shut himself up
in his rooms, where he refused to receive even the bailiff when that
functionary called with his reports. Again, although, until now, he had
to a certain extent associated with a retired colonel of hussars--a man
saturated with tobacco smoke--and also with a student of pronounced, but
immature, opinions who culled the bulk of his wisdom from contemporary
newspapers and pamphlets, he found, as time went on, that these
companions proved as tedious as the rest, and came to think their
conversation superficial, and their European method of comporting
themselves--that is to say, the method of conversing with much slapping
of knees and a great deal of bowing and gesticulation--too direct and
unadorned. So these and every one else he decided to “drop,” and carried
this resolution into effect with a certain amount of rudeness. On the
next occasion that Varvar Nikolaievitch Vishnepokromov called to indulge
in a free-and-easy symposium on politics, philosophy, literature,
morals, and the state of financial affairs in England (he was, in all
matters which admit of superficial discussion, the pleasantest fellow
alive, seeing that he was a typical representative both of the retired
fire-eater and of the school of thought which is now becoming the
rage)--when, I say, this next happened, Tientietnikov merely sent out
to say that he was not at home, and then carefully showed himself at the
window. Host and guest exchanged glances, and, while the one muttered
through his teeth “The cur!” the other relieved his feelings with a
remark or two on swine. Thus the acquaintance came to an abrupt end, and
from that time forth no visitor called at the mansion.

Tientietnikov in no way regretted this, for he could now devote himself
wholly to the projection of a great work on Russia. Of the scale on
which this composition was conceived the reader is already aware. The
reader also knows how strange, how unsystematic, was the system employed
in it. Yet to say that Tientietnikov never awoke from his lethargy
would not be altogether true. On the contrary, when the post brought him
newspapers and reviews, and he saw in their printed pages, perhaps, the
well-known name of some former comrade who had succeeded in the great
field of Public Service, or had conferred upon science and the
world’s work some notable contribution, he would succumb to secret and
suppressed grief, and involuntarily there would burst from his soul
an expression of aching, voiceless regret that he himself had done so
little. And at these times his existence would seem to him odious and
repellent; at these times there would uprise before him the memory of
his school days, and the figure of Alexander Petrovitch, as vivid as in
life. And, slowly welling, the tears would course over Tientietnikov’s
cheeks.

What meant these repinings? Was there not disclosed in them the secret
of his galling spiritual pain--the fact that he had failed to order his
life aright, to confirm the lofty aims with which he had started his
course; the fact that, always poorly equipped with experience, he
had failed to attain the better and the higher state, and there to
strengthen himself for the overcoming of hindrances and obstacles; the
fact that, dissolving like overheated metal, his bounteous store of
superior instincts had failed to take the final tempering; the fact that
the tutor of his boyhood, a man in a thousand, had prematurely died, and
left to Tientietnikov no one who could restore to him the moral
strength shattered by vacillation and the will power weakened by want
of virility--no one, in short, who could cry hearteningly to his soul
“Forward!”--the word for which the Russian of every degree, of every
class, of every occupation, of every school of thought, is for ever
hungering.

Indeed, WHERE is the man who can cry aloud for any of us, in the Russian
tongue dear to our soul, the all-compelling command “Forward!”? Who is
there who, knowing the strength and the nature and the inmost depths of
the Russian genius, can by a single magic incantation divert our ideals
to the higher life? Were there such a man, with what tears, with what
affection, would not the grateful sons of Russia repay him! Yet age
succeeds to age, and our callow youth still lies wrapped in shameful
sloth, or strives and struggles to no purpose. God has not yet given us
the man able to sound the call.

One circumstance which almost aroused Tientietnikov, which almost
brought about a revolution in his character, was the fact that he came
very near to falling in love. Yet even this resulted in nothing. Ten
versts away there lived the general whom we have heard expressing
himself in highly uncomplimentary terms concerning Tientietnikov. He
maintained a General-like establishment, dispensed hospitality (that
is to say, was glad when his neighbours came to pay him their respects,
though he himself never went out), spoke always in a hoarse voice, read
a certain number of books, and had a daughter--a curious, unfamiliar
type, but full of life as life itself. This maiden’s name was Ulinka,
and she had been strangely brought up, for, losing her mother in early
childhood, she had subsequently received instruction at the hands of an
English governess who knew not a single word of Russian. Moreover her
father, though excessively fond of her, treated her always as a toy;
with the result that, as she grew to years of discretion, she became
wholly wayward and spoilt. Indeed, had any one seen the sudden rage
which would gather on her beautiful young forehead when she was engaged
in a heated dispute with her father, he would have thought her one of
the most capricious beings in the world. Yet that rage gathered only
when she had heard of injustice or harsh treatment, and never because
she desired to argue on her own behalf, or to attempt to justify her own
conduct. Also, that anger would disappear as soon as ever she saw any
one whom she had formerly disliked fall upon evil times, and, at his
first request for alms would, without consideration or subsequent
regret, hand him her purse and its whole contents. Yes, her every act
was strenuous, and when she spoke her whole personality seemed to be
following hot-foot upon her thought--both her expression of face and her
diction and the movements of her hands. Nay, the very folds of her frock
had a similar appearance of striving; until one would have thought
that all her self were flying in pursuit of her words. Nor did she know
reticence: before any one she would disclose her mind, and no force
could compel her to maintain silence when she desired to speak. Also,
her enchanting, peculiar gait--a gait which belonged to her alone--was
so absolutely free and unfettered that every one involuntarily gave her
way. Lastly, in her presence churls seemed to become confused and fall
to silence, and even the roughest and most outspoken would lose their
heads, and have not a word to say; whereas the shy man would find
himself able to converse as never in his life before, and would feel,
from the first, as though he had seen her and known her at some previous
period--during the days of some unremembered childhood, when he was at
home, and spending a merry evening among a crowd of romping children.
And for long afterwards he would feel as though his man’s intellect and
estate were a burden.

This was what now befell Tientietnikov; and as it did so a new feeling
entered into his soul, and his dreamy life lightened for a moment.

At first the General used to receive him with hospitable civility, but
permanent concord between them proved impossible; their conversation
always merged into dissension and soreness, seeing that, while the
General could not bear to be contradicted or worsted in an argument,
Tientietnikov was a man of extreme sensitiveness. True, for the
daughter’s sake, the father was for a while deferred to, and thus peace
was maintained; but this lasted only until the time when there arrived,
on a visit to the General, two kinswomen of his--the Countess Bordirev
and the Princess Uziakin, retired Court dames, but ladies who still
kept up a certain connection with Court circles, and therefore were much
fawned upon by their host. No sooner had they appeared on the scene than
(so it seemed to Tientietnikov) the General’s attitude towards the young
man became colder--either he ceased to notice him at all or he spoke to
him familiarly, and as to a person having no standing in society. This
offended Tientietnikov deeply, and though, when at length he spoke out
on the subject, he retained sufficient presence of mind to compress his
lips, and to preserve a gentle and courteous tone, his face flushed and
his inner man was boiling.

“General,” he said, “I thank you for your condescension. By addressing
me in the second person singular, you have admitted me to the circle
of your most intimate friends. Indeed, were it not that a difference of
years forbids any familiarity on my part, I should answer you in similar
fashion.”

The General sat aghast. At length, rallying his tongue and his
faculties, he replied that, though he had spoken with a lack of
ceremony, he had used the term “thou” merely as an elderly man naturally
employs it towards a junior (he made no reference to difference of
rank).

Nevertheless, the acquaintance broke off here, and with it any
possibility of love-making. The light which had shed a momentary gleam
before Tientietnikov’s eyes had become extinguished for ever, and upon
it there followed a darkness denser than before. Henceforth everything
conduced to evolve the regime which the reader has noted--that regime
of sloth and inaction which converted Tientietnikov’s residence into a
place of dirt and neglect. For days at a time would a broom and a heap
of dust be left lying in the middle of a room, and trousers tossing
about the salon, and pairs of worn-out braces adorning the what-not near
the sofa. In short, so mean and untidy did Tientietnikov’s mode of life
become, that not only his servants, but even his very poultry ceased to
treat him with respect. Taking up a pen, he would spend hours in idly
sketching houses, huts, waggons, troikas, and flourishes on a piece of
paper; while at other times, when he had sunk into a reverie, the pen
would, all unknowingly, sketch a small head which had delicate features,
a pair of quick, penetrating eyes, and a raised coiffure. Then suddenly
the dreamer would perceive, to his surprise, that the pen had executed
the portrait of a maiden whose picture no artist could adequately have
painted; and therewith his despondency would become greater than ever,
and, believing that happiness did not exist on earth, he would relapse
into increased ennui, increased neglect of his responsibilities.

But one morning he noticed, on moving to the window after breakfast,
that not a word was proceeding either from the butler or the
housekeeper, but that, on the contrary, the courtyard seemed to smack of
a certain bustle and excitement. This was because through the entrance
gates (which the kitchen maid and the scullion had run to open) there
were appearing the noses of three horses--one to the right, one in the
middle, and one to the left, after the fashion of triumphal groups of
statuary. Above them, on the box seat, were seated a coachman and a
valet, while behind, again, there could be discerned a gentleman in a
scarf and a fur cap. Only when the equipage had entered the courtyard
did it stand revealed as a light spring britchka. And as it came to a
halt, there leapt on to the verandah of the mansion an individual
of respectable exterior, and possessed of the art of moving with the
neatness and alertness of a military man.

Upon this Tientietnikov’s heart stood still. He was unused to receiving
visitors, and for the moment conceived the new arrival to be a
Government official, sent to question him concerning an abortive society
to which he had formerly belonged. (Here the author may interpolate the
fact that, in Tientietnikov’s early days, the young man had become mixed
up in a very absurd affair. That is to say, a couple of philosophers
belonging to a regiment of hussars had, together with an aesthete
who had not yet completed his student’s course and a gambler who had
squandered his all, formed a secret society of philanthropic aims under
the presidency of a certain old rascal of a freemason and the ruined
gambler aforesaid. The scope of the society’s work was to be extensive:
it was to bring lasting happiness to humanity at large, from the banks
of the Thames to the shores of Kamtchatka. But for this much money was
needed: wherefore from the noble-minded members of the society generous
contributions were demanded, and then forwarded to a destination known
only to the supreme authorities of the concern. As for Tientietnikov’s
adhesion, it was brought about by the two friends already alluded to as
“embittered”--good-hearted souls whom the wear and tear of their efforts
on behalf of science, civilisation, and the future emancipation of
mankind had ended by converting into confirmed drunkards. Perhaps it
need hardly be said that Tientietnikov soon discovered how things stood,
and withdrew from the association; but, meanwhile, the latter had had
the misfortune so to have engaged in dealings not wholly creditable
to gentlemen of noble origin as likewise to have become entangled in
dealings with the police. Consequently, it is not to be wondered at
that, though Tientietnikov had long severed his connection with the
society and its policy, he still remained uneasy in his mind as to what
might even yet be the result.)

However, his fears vanished the instant that the guest saluted him with
marked politeness and explained, with many deferential poises of the
head, and in terms at once civil and concise, that for some time past
he (the newcomer) had been touring the Russian Empire on business and
in the pursuit of knowledge, that the Empire abounded in objects
of interest--not to mention a plenitude of manufactures and a great
diversity of soil, and that, in spite of the fact that he was greatly
struck with the amenities of his host’s domain, he would certainly
not have presumed to intrude at such an inconvenient hour but for the
circumstance that the inclement spring weather, added to the state of
the roads, had necessitated sundry repairs to his carriage at the hands
of wheelwrights and blacksmiths. Finally he declared that, even if this
last had NOT happened, he would still have felt unable to deny himself
the pleasure of offering to his host that meed of homage which was the
latter’s due.

This speech--a speech of fascinating bonhomie--delivered, the guest
executed a sort of shuffle with a half-boot of patent leather studded
with buttons of mother-of-pearl, and followed that up by (in spite of
his pronounced rotundity of figure) stepping backwards with all the elan
of an india-rubber ball.

From this the somewhat reassured Tientietnikov concluded that his
visitor must be a literary, knowledge-seeking professor who was engaged
in roaming the country in search of botanical specimens and fossils;
wherefore he hastened to express both his readiness to further the
visitor’s objects (whatever they might be) and his personal willingness
to provide him with the requisite wheelwrights and blacksmiths.
Meanwhile he begged his guest to consider himself at home, and,
after seating him in an armchair, made preparations to listen to the
newcomer’s discourse on natural history.

But the newcomer applied himself, rather, to phenomena of the internal
world, saying that his life might be likened to a barque tossed on the
crests of perfidious billows, that in his time he had been fated to play
many parts, and that on more than one occasion his life had stood
in danger at the hands of foes. At the same time, these tidings were
communicated in a manner calculated to show that the speaker was also
a man of PRACTICAL capabilities. In conclusion, the visitor took out a
cambric pocket-handkerchief, and sneezed into it with a vehemence wholly
new to Tientietnikov’s experience. In fact, the sneeze rather resembled
the note which, at times, the trombone of an orchestra appears to utter
not so much from its proper place on the platform as from the immediate
neighbourhood of the listener’s ear. And as the echoes of the drowsy
mansion resounded to the report of the explosion there followed upon the
same a wave of perfume, skilfully wafted abroad with a flourish of the
eau-de-Cologne-scented handkerchief.

By this time the reader will have guessed that the visitor was none
other than our old and respected friend Paul Ivanovitch Chichikov.
Naturally, time had not spared him his share of anxieties and alarms;
wherefore his exterior had come to look a trifle more elderly, his
frockcoat had taken on a suggestion of shabbiness, and britchka,
coachman, valet, horses, and harness alike had about them a sort of
second-hand, worse-for-wear effect. Evidently the Chichikovian finances
were not in the most flourishing of conditions. Nevertheless, the old
expression of face, the old air of breeding and refinement, remained
unimpaired, and our hero had even improved in the art of walking and
turning with grace, and of dexterously crossing one leg over the
other when taking a seat. Also, his mildness of diction, his discreet
moderation of word and phrase, survived in, if anything, increased
measure, and he bore himself with a skill which caused his tactfulness
to surpass itself in sureness of aplomb. And all these accomplishments
had their effect further heightened by a snowy immaculateness of collar
and dickey, and an absence of dust from his frockcoat, as complete as
though he had just arrived to attend a nameday festival. Lastly, his
cheeks and chin were of such neat clean-shavenness that no one but a
blind man could have failed to admire their rounded contours.

From that moment onwards great changes took place in Tientietnikov’s
establishment, and certain of its rooms assumed an unwonted air of
cleanliness and order. The rooms in question were those assigned to
Chichikov, while one other apartment--a little front chamber opening
into the hall--became permeated with Petrushka’s own peculiar smell.
But this lasted only for a little while, for presently Petrushka was
transferred to the servants’ quarters, a course which ought to have been
adopted in the first instance.

During the initial days of Chichikov’s sojourn, Tientietnikov feared
rather to lose his independence, inasmuch as he thought that his
guest might hamper his movements, and bring about alterations in the
established routine of the place. But these fears proved groundless, for
Paul Ivanovitch displayed an extraordinary aptitude for accommodating
himself to his new position. To begin with, he encouraged his host
in his philosophical inertia by saying that the latter would help
Tientietnikov to become a centenarian. Next, in the matter of a life of
isolation, he hit things off exactly by remarking that such a life
bred in a man a capacity for high thinking. Lastly, as he inspected the
library and dilated on books in general, he contrived an opportunity to
observe that literature safeguarded a man from a tendency to waste his
time. In short, the few words of which he delivered himself were brief,
but invariably to the point. And this discretion of speech was outdone
by his discretion of conduct. That is to say, whether entering
or leaving the room, he never wearied his host with a question if
Tientietnikov had the air of being disinclined to talk; and with equal
satisfaction the guest could either play chess or hold his tongue.
Consequently Tientietnikov said to himself:

“For the first time in my life I have met with a man with whom it is
possible to live. In general, not many of the type exist in Russia, and,
though clever, good-humoured, well-educated men abound, one would be
hard put to it to find an individual of equable temperament with whom
one could share a roof for centuries without a quarrel arising. Anyway,
Chichikov is the first of his sort that I have met.”

For his part, Chichikov was only too delighted to reside with a
person so quiet and agreeable as his host. Of a wandering life he was
temporarily weary, and to rest, even for a month, in such a beautiful
spot, and in sight of green fields and the slow flowering of spring, was
likely to benefit him also from the hygienic point of view. And, indeed,
a more delightful retreat in which to recuperate could not possibly have
been found. The spring, long retarded by previous cold, had now begun
in all its comeliness, and life was rampant. Already, over the first
emerald of the grass, the dandelion was showing yellow, and the red-pink
anemone was hanging its tender head; while the surface of every pond
was a swarm of dancing gnats and midges, and the water-spider was being
joined in their pursuit by birds which gathered from every quarter to
the vantage-ground of the dry reeds. Every species of creature also
seemed to be assembling in concourse, and taking stock of one another.
Suddenly the earth became populous, the forest had opened its eyes, and
the meadows were lifting up their voice in song. In the same way had
choral dances begun to be weaved in the village, and everywhere that the
eye turned there was merriment. What brightness in the green of nature,
what freshness in the air, what singing of birds in the gardens of the
mansion, what general joy and rapture and exaltation! Particularly in
the village might the shouting and singing have been in honour of a
wedding!

Chichikov walked hither, thither, and everywhere--a pursuit for which
there was ample choice and facility. At one time he would direct his
steps along the edge of the flat tableland, and contemplate the depths
below, where still there lay sheets of water left by the floods of
winter, and where the island-like patches of forest showed leafless
boughs; while at another time he would plunge into the thicket and
ravine country, where nests of birds weighted branches almost to the
ground, and the sky was darkened with the criss-cross flight of cawing
rooks. Again, the drier portions of the meadows could be crossed to the
river wharves, whence the first barges were just beginning to set forth
with pea-meal and barley and wheat, while at the same time one’s ear
would be caught with the sound of some mill resuming its functions as
once more the water turned the wheel. Chichikov would also walk afield
to watch the early tillage operations of the season, and observe how
the blackness of a new furrow would make its way across the expanse of
green, and how the sower, rhythmically striking his hand against the
pannier slung across his breast, would scatter his fistfuls of seed with
equal distribution, apportioning not a grain too much to one side or to
the other.

In fact, Chichikov went everywhere. He chatted and talked, now with the
bailiff, now with a peasant, now with a miller, and inquired into the
manner and nature of everything, and sought information as to how an
estate was managed, and at what price corn was selling, and what species
of grain was best for spring and autumn grinding, and what was the name
of each peasant, and who were his kinsfolk, and where he had bought his
cow, and what he fed his pigs on. Chichikov also made inquiry concerning
the number of peasants who had lately died: but of these there appeared
to be few. And suddenly his quick eye discerned that Tientietnikov’s
estate was not being worked as it might have been--that much neglect and
listlessness and pilfering and drunkenness was abroad; and on perceiving
this, he thought to himself: “What a fool is that Tientietnikov! To
think of letting a property like this decay when he might be drawing
from it an income of fifty thousand roubles a year!”

Also, more than once, while taking these walks, our hero pondered the
idea of himself becoming a landowner--not now, of course, but later,
when his chief aim should have been achieved, and he had got into his
hands the necessary means for living the quiet life of the proprietor
of an estate. Yes, and at these times there would include itself in his
castle-building the figure of a young, fresh, fair-faced maiden of the
mercantile or other rich grade of society, a woman who could both play
and sing. He also dreamed of little descendants who should perpetuate
the name of Chichikov; perhaps a frolicsome little boy and a fair young
daughter, or possibly, two boys and quite two or three daughters; so
that all should know that he had really lived and had his being, that he
had not merely roamed the world like a spectre or a shadow; so that for
him and his the country should never be put to shame. And from that he
would go on to fancy that a title appended to his rank would not be
a bad thing--the title of State Councillor, for instance, which was
deserving of all honour and respect. Ah, it is a common thing for a
man who is taking a solitary walk so to detach himself from the irksome
realities of the present that he is able to stir and to excite and to
provoke his imagination to the conception of things he knows can never
really come to pass!

Chichikov’s servants also found the mansion to their taste, and, like
their master, speedily made themselves at home in it. In particular did
Petrushka make friends with Grigory the butler, although at first the
pair showed a tendency to outbrag one another--Petrushka beginning
by throwing dust in Grigory’s eyes on the score of his (Petrushka’s)
travels, and Grigory taking him down a peg or two by referring to St.
Petersburg (a city which Petrushka had never visited), and Petrushka
seeking to recover lost ground by dilating on towns which he HAD
visited, and Grigory capping this by naming some town which is not to be
found on any map in existence, and then estimating the journey
thither as at least thirty thousand versts--a statement which would so
completely flabbergast the henchman of Chichikov’s suite that he would
be left staring open-mouthed, amid the general laughter of the domestic
staff. However, as I say, the pair ended by swearing eternal friendship
with one another, and making a practice of resorting to the village
tavern in company.

For Selifan, however, the place had a charm of a different kind. That is
to say, each evening there would take place in the village a singing of
songs and a weaving of country dances; and so shapely and buxom were the
maidens--maidens of a type hard to find in our present-day villages on
large estates--that he would stand for hours wondering which of them was
the best. White-necked and white-bosomed, all had great roving eyes, the
gait of peacocks, and hair reaching to the waist. And as, with his hands
clasping theirs, he glided hither and thither in the dance, or retired
backwards towards a wall with a row of other young fellows, and then,
with them, returned to meet the damsels--all singing in chorus (and
laughing as they sang it), “Boyars, show me my bridegroom!” and dusk was
falling gently, and from the other side of the river there kept coming
far, faint, plaintive echoes of the melody--well, then our Selifan
hardly knew whether he were standing upon his head or his heels. Later,
when sleeping and when waking, both at noon and at twilight, he would
seem still to be holding a pair of white hands, and moving in the dance.

Chichikov’s horses also found nothing of which to disapprove. Yes,
both the bay, the Assessor, and the skewbald accounted residence at
Tientietnikov’s a most comfortable affair, and voted the oats excellent,
and the arrangement of the stables beyond all cavil. True, on this
occasion each horse had a stall to himself; yet, by looking over the
intervening partition, it was possible always to see one’s fellows, and,
should a neighbour take it into his head to utter a neigh, to answer it
at once.

As for the errand which had hitherto led Chichikov to travel about
Russia, he had now decided to move very cautiously and secretly in the
matter. In fact, on noticing that Tientietnikov went in absorbedly for
reading and for talking philosophy, the visitor said to himself, “No--I
had better begin at the other end,” and proceeded first to feel his way
among the servants of the establishment. From them he learnt several
things, and, in particular, that the barin had been wont to go and
call upon a certain General in the neighbourhood, and that the General
possessed a daughter, and that she and Tientietnikov had had an affair
of some sort, but that the pair had subsequently parted, and gone
their several ways. For that matter, Chichikov himself had noticed
that Tientietnikov was in the habit of drawing heads of which each
representation exactly resembled the rest.

Once, as he sat tapping his silver snuff-box after luncheon, Chichikov
remarked:

“One thing you lack, and only one, Andrei Ivanovitch.”

“What is that?” asked his host.

“A female friend or two,” replied Chichikov.

Tientietnikov made no rejoinder, and the conversation came temporarily
to an end.

But Chichikov was not to be discouraged; wherefore, while waiting for
supper and talking on different subjects, he seized an opportunity to
interject:

“Do you know, it would do you no harm to marry.”

As before, Tientietnikov did not reply, and the renewed mention of the
subject seemed to have annoyed him.

For the third time--it was after supper--Chichikov returned to the
charge by remarking:

“To-day, as I was walking round your property, I could not help thinking
that marriage would do you a great deal of good. Otherwise you will
develop into a hypochondriac.”

Whether Chichikov’s words now voiced sufficiently the note of
persuasion, or whether Tientietnikov happened, at the moment, to be
unusually disposed to frankness, at all events the young landowner
sighed, and then responded as he expelled a puff of tobacco smoke:

“To attain anything, Paul Ivanovitch, one needs to have been born under
a lucky star.”

And he related to his guest the whole history of his acquaintanceship
and subsequent rupture with the General.

As Chichikov listened to the recital, and gradually realised that the
affair had arisen merely out of a chance word on the General’s part, he
was astounded beyond measure, and gazed at Tientietnikov without knowing
what to make of him.

“Andrei Ivanovitch,” he said at length, “what was there to take offence
at?”

“Nothing, as regards the actual words spoken,” replied the other. “The
offence lay, rather, in the insult conveyed in the General’s tone.”
Tientietnikov was a kindly and peaceable man, yet his eyes flashed as he
said this, and his voice vibrated with wounded feeling.

“Yet, even then, need you have taken it so much amiss?”

“What? Could I have gone on visiting him as before?”

“Certainly. No great harm had been done?”

“I disagree with you. Had he been an old man in a humble station of
life, instead of a proud and swaggering officer, I should not have
minded so much. But, as it was, I could not, and would not, brook his
words.”

“A curious fellow, this Tientietnikov!” thought Chichikov to himself.

“A curious fellow, this Chichikov!” was Tientietnikov’s inward
reflection.

“I tell you what,” resumed Chichikov. “To-morrow I myself will go and
see the General.”

“To what purpose?” asked Tientietnikov, with astonishment and distrust
in his eyes.

“To offer him an assurance of my personal respect.”

“A strange fellow, this Chichikov!” reflected Tientietnikov.

“A strange fellow, this Tientietnikov!” thought Chichikov, and then
added aloud: “Yes, I will go and see him at ten o’clock to-morrow; but
since my britchka is not yet altogether in travelling order, would you
be so good as to lend me your koliaska for the purpose?”