Nikolai Gogol - Dead Souls

"But really, Andrei Ivanovich, it wouldn't do you any harm to get married."

Not a word of reply came from Tentetnikov, as if the very mention of the subject was disagreeable to him.

Chichikov was not embarrassed. For the third time he chose a moment, this time after supper, and spoke thus:

"But all the same, whichever way I turn your circumstances, I see that you must get married: you'll fall into hypochondria."

Whether it was that Chichikov's words this time were so convincing, or that Andrei Ivanovich's mood was somehow especially inclined to frankness, he sighed and said, sending up smoke from his pipe: "For all things one needs to be born lucky, Pavel Ivanovich," and he told everything as it had been, the whole story of his acquaintance with the general and its breakup.

As Chichikov listened, word by word, to the whole affair and saw that because of one word such an incident had occurred, he was dumbfounded. For several minutes he looked intently into Tentetnikov's eyes and concluded: "Why, he's simply a perfect fool!"

"Andrei Ivanovich, for pity's sake!" he said, taking both his hands. "Where's the insult? what's insulting in one familiar word?"

"There's nothing insulting in the word itself," said Tentetnikov, "but the sense of the word, the voice in which it was uttered, that's where the insult lies. The word means: 'Remember, you're trash; I receive you only because there's no one better, but if some Princess Yuzyakin comes—you know your place, you stand by the door.' That's what it means!"

As he said this, the placid and meek Andrei Ivanovich flashed his eyes, and in his voice the irritation of offended feelings could be heard.

"But even if that is the sense of it—what matter?" said Chichikov.

"What?" said Tentetnikov, looking intently into Chichikov's eyes. "You want me to continue visiting him after such an action?"

"But what sort of action is that? It's not an action at all!" said Chichikov.

"What a strange man this Chichikov is!" Tentetnikov thought to himself.

"What a strange man this Tentetnikov is!" Chichikov thought to himself.

"It's not an action, Andrei Ivanovich. It's simply a general's habit: they call everyone 'boy.' And, incidentally, why not allow it in a venerable, respectable man?"

"That's another matter," said Tentetnikov. "If he were an old man, a poor man, not proud, not conceited, not a general, I would allow him to address me that way and even take it respectfully."

"He's an utter fool!" Chichikov thought to himself. "To allow it to a ragamuffin, and not to a general!" And, following this reflection, he objected to him aloud, thus:

"Very well, suppose he did insult you, but you also got even with him; he you, and you him. But to part forever on account of a trifle—for pity's sake, that's beyond anything! Why abandon an affair that's just begun? Once the goal has been chosen, one must push one's way through. No point in looking at a man who spits! Men are always spitting; you won't find anyone in the whole world who doesn't spit."

Tentetnikov was completely taken aback by these words; dumbfounded, he stared into Pavel Ivanovich's eyes, thinking to himself: "A most strange man, though, this Chichikov!"

"What an odd duck, though, this Tentetnikov!" Chichikov thought meanwhile.

"Allow me to do something about this matter," he said aloud. "I could go to His Excellency and explain that on your part it occurred owing to misunderstanding, youth, an ignorance of men and the world."

"I have no intention of groveling before him!" Tentetnikov said strongly.

"God forbid you should grovel!" said Chichikov, crossing himself. "To influence with a word of admonition, like a sensible mediator, yes, but to grovel. . . Excuse me, Andrei Ivanovich, for my good will and devotion, I never expected that you would take my words in such an offensive sense!"

"Forgive me, Pavel Ivanovich, I am to blame!" Tentetnikov said, touched, and seizing both his hands in gratitude. "Your kind sympathy is precious to me, I swear! But let's drop this conversation, let's never speak of it again!"

"In that case I'll simply go to the general without any reason," said Chichikov.

"What for?" asked Tentetnikov, looking at Chichikov in bewilderment.

"To pay my respects," said Chichikov.

"What a strange man this Chichikov is!" thought Tentetnikov.

"What a strange man this Tentetnikov is!" thought Chichikov.

"Since my britzka," said Chichikov, "has not yet attained the proper condition, allow me to take your coach. I'll go and visit him tomorrow at around ten o'clock or so."

"Good gracious, what a request! You are full master, choose any carriage you like, everything's at your disposal."

They said good night and went to bed, not without reflecting on each other's strangeness.

An odd thing, however: the next day, when Chichikov's horses were ready, and he leaped into the carriage with the ease of an almost military man, dressed in a new tailcoat, a white tie and waistcoat, and drove off to pay his respects to the general, Tentetnikov felt an agitation in his soul such as he had not experienced for a long time. All the rusty and drowsy course of his thoughts turned into an actively troubled one. A nervous excitement came over all the feelings of the sloth who hitherto had been sunk in careless indolence. Now he sat down on the sofa, now he went to the window, now he would take up a book, now he wanted to think—futile wanting!—thought refused to come into his head.

Now he attempted not to think about anything—futile attempt!—scraps of something resembling thoughts, odds and ends of thoughts, kept creeping and pecking into his head from everywhere. "A strange state!" he said and moved to the window to gaze at the road cutting through the grove, at the end of which the clouds of dust raised by the departing carriage had not yet had time to settle. But let us leave Tentetnikov and follow Chichikov.

In a little over half an hour the horses carried Chichikov across the six-mile space—first through the grove, then through wheat fields already beginning to green amid the freshly ploughed earth, then over the skirts of the hills, from which views of the distance opened every minute—and along a wide avenue of spreading lindens leading to the general's estate. The avenue of lindens turned into an avenue of poplars, fenced at the base with wicker boxes, and ran up to wrought-iron gates through which appeared the splendidly ornate carved façade of the general's house, resting on eight columns with Corinthian capitals. Everywhere there was a smell of oil paint, with which everything was renewed, allowing nothing to get old. The yard was as clean as parquet. Having rolled up to the front entrance, Chichikov respectfully jumped off onto the porch, asked to be announced, and was introduced directly into the general's study.

The general struck him with his majestic appearance. He was, at that moment, dressed in a raspberry satin dressing gown. An open look, a manly face, grizzled side-whiskers and a big mustache, hair cut short and even shaved at the nape, a thick, broad neck, in three stories, as they say, or three folds with a crease across the middle, the voice a bass with some huskiness, the movements those of a general. Like all of us sinners, General Betrishchev was endowed with many virtues and many defects. Both the one and the other were scattered through him in a sort of picturesque disorder. Self-sacrifice, magnanimity in decisive moments, courage, intelligence—and with all that, a generous mixture of self-love, ambition, vanity, petty personal ticklishness, and a good many of those things which a man simply cannot do without. He disliked all those who got ahead of him in the service, spoke of them caustically, in pointed, sardonic epigrams. Most of it hit at a former colleague, whom he considered his inferior in intelligence and abilities, but who had nevertheless outstripped him and was already the Governor-general of two provinces, and, as if by design, of the very ones in which his own estates were located, so that he found himself as if dependent on him. In revenge, he derided him at every opportunity, criticized his every directive, and looked upon all his measures and actions as the height of folly. Despite his good heart, the general was given to mockery. Broadly speaking, he liked being first, liked incense, liked to shine and display his intelligence, liked knowing things that others did not know, and did not like those who knew something he did not know. Brought up with a half-foreign upbringing, he wanted at the same time to play the role of a Russian squire. With such unevenness of character, with such big, striking contrasts, he was inevitably bound to meet with a heap of troubles in the service, as a result of which he took his retirement, accusing some enemy party of everything and not having enough magnanimity to blame himself for any of it. In retirement he preserved the same picturesque, majestic bearing. In a frock coat, a tailcoat, or a dressing gown—he was the same. From his voice to his least gesture, everything in him was imperious, commanding, inspiring, if not respect, then at least timidity in the lower ranks.