Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol (moboreader .txt) 📕

and viewed them askance. Then, with renewed ardour, he resumed his work of writing.

“Would you mind telling me,” said Chichikov, bowing, “whether this is the desk for serf affairs?”

It appeared as though Ivan Antonovitch had not heard, so completely did he bury himself in his papers and return no reply. Instantly it became plain that he at least was of an age of discretion, and not one of your jejune chatterboxes and harum-scarums; for, although his hair was still thick and black, he had long ago passed his fortieth year. His whole face tended towards the nose⁠—it was what, in common parlance, is known as a “pitcher-mug.”

“Would you mind telling me,” repeated Chichikov, “whether this is the desk for serf affairs?”

“It is that,” said Ivan Antonovitch, again lowering his jug-shaped jowl, and resuming his writing.

“Then I should like to transact the following business. From various landowners in this canton I have purchased a number of peasants for transfer. Here is the purchase list, and it needs but to be registered.”

“Have you also the vendors here?”

“Some of them, and from the rest I have obtained powers of attorney.”

“And have you your statement of application?”

“Yes. I desire⁠—indeed, it is necessary for me so to do⁠—to hasten matters a little. Could the affair, therefore, be carried through today?”

“Today? Oh, dear no!” said Ivan Antonovitch. “Before that can be done you must furnish me with further proofs that no impediments exist.”

“Then, to expedite matters, let me say that Ivan Grigorievitch, the President of the Council, is a very intimate friend of mine.”

“Possibly,” said Ivan Antonovitch without enthusiasm. “But Ivan Grigorievitch alone will not do⁠—it is customary to have others as well.”

“Yes, but the absence of others will not altogether invalidate the transaction. I too have been in the service, and know how things can be done.”

“You had better go and see Ivan Grigorievitch,” said Ivan Antonovitch more mildly. “Should he give you an order addressed to whom it may concern, we shall soon be able to settle the matter.”

Upon that Chichikov pulled from his pocket a paper, and laid it before Ivan Antonovitch. At once the latter covered it with a book. Chichikov again attempted to show it to him, but, with a movement of his head, Ivan Antonovitch signified that that was unnecessary.

“A clerk,” he added, “will now conduct you to Ivan Grigorievitch’s room.”

Upon that one of the toilers in the service of Themis⁠—a zealot who had offered her such heartfelt sacrifice that his coat had burst at the elbows and lacked a lining⁠—escorted our friends (even as Virgil had once escorted Dante) to the apartment of the Presence. In this sanctum were some massive armchairs, a table laden with two or three fat books, and a large looking-glass. Lastly, in (apparently) sunlike isolation, there was seated at the table the President. On arriving at the door of the apartment, our modern Virgil seemed to have become so overwhelmed with awe that, without daring even to intrude a foot, he turned back, and, in so doing, once more exhibited a back as shiny as a mat, and having adhering to it, in one spot, a chicken’s feather. As soon as the two friends had entered the hall of the Presence they perceived that the President was not alone, but, on the contrary, had seated by his side Sobakevitch, whose form had hitherto been concealed by the intervening mirror. The newcomers’ entry evoked sundry exclamations and the pushing back of a pair of government chairs as the voluminous-sleeved Sobakevitch rose into view from behind the looking-glass. Chichikov the President received with an embrace, and for a while the hall of the Presence resounded with osculatory salutations as mutually the pair inquired after one another’s health. It seemed that both had lately had a touch of that pain under the waistband which comes of a sedentary life. Also, it seemed that the President had just been conversing with Sobakevitch on the subject of sales of souls, since he now proceeded to congratulate Chichikov on the same⁠—a proceeding which rather embarrassed our hero, seeing that Manilov and Sobakevitch, two of the vendors, and persons with whom he had bargained in the strictest privacy, were now confronting one another direct. However, Chichikov duly thanked the President, and then, turning to Sobakevitch, inquired after his health.

“Thank God, I have nothing to complain of,” replied Sobakevitch: which was true enough, seeing that a piece of iron would have caught cold and taken to sneezing sooner than would that uncouthly fashioned landowner.

“Ah, yes; you have always had good health, have you not?” put in the President. “Your late father was equally strong.”

“Yes, he even went out bear hunting alone,” replied Sobakevitch.

“I should think that you too could worst a bear if you were to try a tussle with him,” rejoined the President.

“Oh no,” said Sobakevitch. “My father was a stronger man than I am.” Then with a sigh the speaker added: “But nowadays there are no such men as he. What is even a life like mine worth?”

“Then you do not have a comfortable time of it?” exclaimed the President.

“No; far from it,” rejoined Sobakevitch, shaking his head. “Judge for yourself, Ivan Grigorievitch. I am fifty years old, yet never in my life had been ill, except for an occasional carbuncle or boil. That is not a good sign. Sooner or later I shall have to pay for it.” And he relapsed into melancholy.

“Just listen to the fellow!” was Chichikov’s and the President’s joint inward comment. “What on earth has he to complain of?”

“I have a letter for you, Ivan Grigorievitch,” went on Chichikov aloud as he produced from his pocket Plushkin’s epistle.

“From whom?” inquired the President. Having broken the seal, he exclaimed: “Why, it is from Plushkin! To think that he is still alive! What a strange world it is! He used to be such a nice fellow, and now⁠—”

“And now he is a cur,” concluded Sobakevitch, “as well as a miser who starves his serfs to death.”

“Allow me