Nikolai Gogol - Dead Souls

"Had dinner?" shouted the squire, climbing onto the shore with the caught fish, holding one hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun, and the other lower down in the manner of the Medici Venus stepping from her bath.

"No," said Chichikov.

"Well, then you can thank God."

"Why?" Chichikov asked curiously, holding his cap up over his head.

"Here's why!" said the squire, winding up on shore with the carp and bream thrashing around his feet leaping a yard high off the ground. "This is nothing, don't look at this: that's the real thing over there! . . . Show us the sturgeon, Big Foma." Two stalwart muzhiks dragged some sort of monster from a tub. "What a princeling! strayed in from the river!"

"No, that's a full prince!" said Chichikov.

"You said it. Go on ahead now, and I'll follow. You there, coachman, take the lower road, through the kitchen garden. Run, Little Foma, you dolt, and take the barrier down. I'll follow in no time, before you ..."

"The colonel's an odd bird," thought Chichikov, finally getting across the endless dam and driving up to the cottages, of which some, like a flock of ducks, were scattered over the slope of a hill, while others stood below on pilings, like herons. Nets, sweep-nets, dragnets were hanging everywhere. Little Foma took down the barrier, the coach drove through the kitchen garden, and came out on a square near an antiquated wooden church. Behind the church, the roofs of the manor buildings could be seen farther off.

"And here I am!" a voice came from the side. Chichikov looked around. The squire was already driving along next to him, clothed, in a droshky—grass-green nankeen frock coat, yellow trousers, and a neck without a tie, after the manner of a cupid! He was sitting sideways on the droshky, taking up the whole droshky with himself. Chichikov was about to say something to him, but the fat man had already vanished. The droshky appeared on the other side, and all that was heard was a voice: "Take the pike and seven carp to that dolt of a cook, and fetch the sturgeon here: I'll take him myself in the droshky." Again came voices: "Big Foma and Little Foma! Kozma and Denis!" And when he drove up to the porch of the house, to his greatest amazement the fat squire was already standing there and received him into his embrace. How he had managed to fly there was inconceivable. They kissed each other three times crisscross.

"I bring you greetings from His Excellency," said Chichikov.

"Which Excellency?"

"Your relative, General Alexander Dmitrievich."

"Who is Alexander Dmitrievich?"

"General Betrishchev," Chichikov replied in some amazement.

"Don't know him, sir, never met him."

Chichikov was still more amazed.

"How's that? ... I hope I at least have the pleasure of speaking with Colonel Koshkarev?"

"Pyotr Petrovich Petukh, Petukh Pyotr Petrovich!" [60] the host picked up.

Chichikov was dumbfounded.

"There you have it! How now, you fools," he said, turning to Selifan and Petrushka, who both gaped, goggle-eyed, one sitting on his box, the other standing by the door of the coach, "how now, you fools? Weren't you told—to Colonel Koshkarev's . . . And this is Pyotr Petrovich Petukh ..."

"The lads did excellently!" said Pyotr Petrovich. "For that you'll each get a noggin of vodka and pie to boot. Unharness the horses and go at once to the servants' quarters."

"I'm embarrassed," Chichikov said with a bow, "such an unexpected mistake ..."

"Not a mistake," Pyotr Petrovich Petukh said promptly, "not a mistake. You try how the dinner is first, and then say whether it was a mistake or not. Kindly step in," he said, taking Chichikov under the arm and leading him to the inner rooms.

Chichikov decorously passed through the doors sideways, so as to allow the host to enter with him; but this was in vain: the host could not enter, and besides he was no longer there. One could only hear his talk resounding all over the yard: "But where's Big Foma? Why isn't he here yet? Emelyan, you gawk, run and tell that dolt of a cook to gut the sturgeon quickly. Milt, roe, innards, and bream—into the soup; carp—into the sauce. And crayfish, crayfish! Little Foma, you gawk, where are the crayfish? crayfish, I say, crayfish?!" And for a long time there went on echoing "crayfish, crayfish."

"Well, the host's bustling about," said Chichikov, sitting in an armchair and studying the walls and corners.

"And here I am," said the host, entering and bringing in two youths in summer frock coats. Slender as willow wands, they shot up almost two feet taller than Pyotr Petrovich.

"My sons, high-school boys. Home for the holidays. Nikolasha, you stay with our guest, and you, Alexasha, follow me."

And again Pyotr Petrovich Petukh vanished.

Chichikov occupied himself with Nikolasha. Nikolasha was talkative. He said that the teaching in his school was not very good, that more favor was shown those whose mamas sent them costlier presents, that the Inkermanland hussar regiment was stationed in their town, that Captain Vetvitsky had a better horse than the colonel himself, though Lieutenant Vzemtsev was a far better rider.

"And, tell me, what is the condition of your papa's estate?" asked Chichikov.

"Mortgaged," the papa himself replied to that, appearing in the drawing room again, "mortgaged."

It remained for Chichikov to make the sort of movement with his lips that a man makes when a deal comes to nought and ends in nothing.

"Why did you mortgage it?" he asked.

"Just so. Everybody got into mortgaging, why should I lag behind the rest? They say it's profitable. And besides, I've always lived here, so why not try living in Moscow a bit?"

"The fool, the fool!" thought Chichikov, "he'll squander everything, and turn his children into little squanderers, too. He ought to stay in the country, porkpie that he is!"

"And I know just what you're thinking," said Petukh.

"What?" asked Chichikov, embarrassed.

"You're thinking: 'He's a fool, a fool, this Petukh! Got me to stay for dinner, and there's still no dinner.' It'll be ready, most honorable sir. Quicker than a crop-headed wench can braid her hair."

"Papa, Platon Mikhalych is coming!" said Alexasha, looking out the window.

"Riding a bay horse," Nikolasha added, bending down to the window. "Do you think our gray is worse than that, Alexasha?"

"Worse or not, he doesn't have the same gait."

An argument arose between them about the bay horse and the gray. Meanwhile a handsome man entered the room—tall and trim, with glossy light brown curls and dark eyes. A big-muzzled monster of a dog came in after him, its bronze collar clanking.

"Had dinner?" asked Pyotr Petrovich Petukh.

"I have," said the guest.

"What, then, have you come here to laugh at me?" Petukh said crossly. "Who needs you after dinner?"

"Anyhow, Pyotr Petrovich," the guest said, smiling, "I have this comfort for you, that I ate nothing at dinner: I have no appetite at all."

"And what a catch we had, if only you'd seen! What a giant of a sturgeon came to us! We didn't even count the carp."

"I'm envious just listening to you," said the guest. "Teach me to be as merry as you are."

"But why be bored? for pity's sake!" said the host.

"Why be bored? Because it's boring."

"You eat too little, that's all. Try and have a good dinner. Boredom was only invented recently. Before no one was bored."

"Enough boasting! As if you've never been bored?"

"Never! I don't know, I haven't even got time to be bored. In the morning you wake up, you have to have your tea, and the steward is there, and then it's time for fishing, and then there's dinner. After dinner you just barely have time for a snooze, then it's supper, and then the cook comes—you have to order dinner for the next day. When could I be bored?"