Nikolai Gogol - Dead Souls

It was already dusk as they were coming back. In the darkness the oars struck waters that no longer reflected the sky. Barely visible were the little lights on the shores of the lake. The moon was rising when they pulled in to shore. Everywhere fishermen were cooking fish soup on tripods, all of ruff, the fish still quiveringly alive. Everything was already home. Geese, cows, and goats had been driven home long ago, and the very dust they raised had long settled, and their herdsmen stood by the gates waiting for a crock of milk and an invitation for fish soup. Here and there some human chatter and clatter could be heard, the loud barking of dogs from this village, and distant barking from villages farther away. The moon was rising, the darkness began to brighten, and finally everything became bright—lake and cottages; the lights in the windows paled; one could now see the smoke from the chimneys, silvered by moonbeams. Nikolasha and Alexasha swept past them just then on two dashing steeds, racing each other; they raised as much dust as a flock of sheep. "Eh, really, someday I'm going to get me a little country estate!" Chichikov was thinking. A young wench and little Chichikies again rose in his imagination. Who could help being warmed by such an evening?

And at supper they again ate too much. When Pavel Ivanovich came to the room where he was to sleep, and, getting into bed, felt his tummy: "A drum!" he said, "no governor could possibly get in!" Just imagine such a coincidence: on the other side of the wall was the host's study. The wall was thin and one could hear everything that was being said there. The host was ordering the cook to prepare for the next day, in the guise of an early lunch, a decided dinner. And how he was ordering it! It was enough to make a dead man hungry. He sucked and smacked his lips. One heard only: "And fry it, and then let it stew nice and long!" And the cook kept saying in a thin falsetto: "Yes, sir. It can be done, sir. That can be done, too, sir."

"And make a covered pie, a four-cornered one. In one corner put sturgeon cheeks and cartilage, and stuff another with buckwheat and mushrooms with onions, and sweet milt, and brains, and something else as well, whatever you know ..."

"Yes, sir. That could be done, sir."

"And so that on one side, you understand, it gets nice and brown, but on the other let it be a bit lighter. From the bottom, from the bottom, you understand, bake it from the bottom, so that it gets all crumbly, so that it gets all juicy through and through, so that you don't feel it in your mouth—it should melt like snow."

"Devil take it!" thought Chichikov, tossing and turning. "He just won't let me sleep."

"And make me a pig haggis. Put a piece of ice in the middle so that it plumps up nicely. And put things around the sturgeon, garnishes, more garnishes! Surround it with crayfish, and little fried fish, and layer it with a stuffing of smelts with some finely minced horseradish, and mushrooms, and turnips, and carrots, and beans, and isn't there some other root?"

"Some kohlrabi or star-cut beets could be put in," said the cook.

"Put in both kohlrabi and beets. And for the roast you'll make me a garnish like this ..."

"Sleep's gone completely!" said Chichikov, turning on his other side, burying his head in the pillows, and covering himself up with a blanket so as not to hear anything. But through the blanket came unremittingly: "And fry it, and bake it, and let it plump up nicely." He finally fell asleep at some turkey.

The next day the guests overate so much that Platonov was no longer able to ride on horseback; the stallion was sent with Petukh's stableboy. They got into the coach. The big-muzzled dog walked lazily behind the coach. He, too, had overeaten.

"No, it's too much," said Chichikov, as they left the place. "It's even piggish. Are you uncomfortable, Platon Mikhalych? Such a comfortable carriage it was, and suddenly it's become uncomfortable. Petrushka, you must have been fool enough to start repacking? There are boxes sticking out everywhere!"

Platon laughed.

"That I can explain for you," he said. "Pyotr Petrovich put things in for the road."

"Right you are," said Petrushka, turning around from the box, "we were ordered to put everything in the coach—pasterries and pies."

"Right, sir, Pavel Ivanovich," said Selifan, turning around from the box, merrily, "such a respectable master. A regaling landowner! Sent us down a glass of champagne each. Right, sir, and ordered them to give us food from the table—very good food, of a delicate aromer. There's never yet been such a respectful master."

"You see? He's satisfied everyone," said Platon. "Tell me simply, however: do you have time to stop by at a certain estate, some six miles from here? I'd like to say good-bye to my sister and brother-in-law."

"With great pleasure," said Chichikov.

"You won't be any the worse for it: my brother-in-law is quite a remarkable man."

"In what sense?" said Chichikov.

"He's the foremost manager that has ever existed in Russia. In a little over ten years he's made it so that a run-down property that used to bring in barely twenty thousand now brings in two hundred thousand."

"Ah, a respectable man! Such a man's life merits being told for people's instruction! I'll be very, very pleased to make his acquaintance. And what is his name?"

"Kostanzhoglo." [61]

"And his first name and patronymic?"

"Konstantin Fyodorovich."

"Konstantin Fyodorovich Kostanzhoglo. Very pleased to make his acquaintance. It's instructive to get to know such a man." And Chichikov started inquiring about Kostanzhoglo, and everything he learned about him from Platonov was indeed amazing.

"Look here, this is where his land begins," said Platonov, pointing to the fields. "You'll see at once the difference from the others. Coachman, take the road to the left here. Do you see this young forest? It's been planted. With someone else, it wouldn't have grown that much in fifteen years, but his grew in eight. Look, the forest ends here. Now it's a wheat field; and after a hundred and fifty acres there will be a forest again, also planted, and so on. Look at the field, how much thicker the growth is than anywhere else."

"I see that. How does he do it?"

"Well, you can ask him, you'll see that . . . [ii] He's a know-all, such a know-all as you won't find anywhere else. He not only knows which plant likes which kind of soil, he also knows in what sort of surroundings, next to what kind of trees a certain grain should be planted. We all have our land cracking with drought, but he doesn't. He calculates how much humidity is necessary, and grows enough trees; with him everything plays a double or triple role: the forest is a forest, but the fields profit from the leaves and the shade. And he's like that with everything."

"An amazing man!" said Chichikov, gazing curiously at the fields.

Everything was in extraordinarily good order. The woods were fenced off; there were cattle yards everywhere, also arranged not without reason and enviably well tended; the haystacks were of gigantic size. Everywhere was abundance and fatness. One could see at once that a top-notch owner lived here. Having climbed a small rise, they saw on the other side a large estate scattered over three hillsides. Everything here was rich: smooth streets, sturdy cottages; if a cart stood somewhere, the cart was a sturdy one and new as could be; if one came upon a horse, the horse was a fine and well-fed one; or upon horned cattle, then they were of the choicest quality. Even the muzhik's pig had an air of nobility. Precisely here, one could see, lived those muzhiks who, as the song says, shovel silver with their spades. There were no English parks here, no gazebos, whimsical bridges, or various avenues in front of the house. Workshops stretched between the cottages and the master's yard. On the roof there was a big lantern, not for the view, but for seeing where, and in what shop, and how the work was going on.