Nikolai Gogol - Dead Souls

They drove up to the house. The owner was absent; they were met by his wife, Platonov's sister, fair-haired, fair-skinned, with a real Russian expression, as handsome, but also as half-asleep, as he was. It seemed she did not care much for what others cared about, either because her husband's all-absorbing activity left no share for her, or because she belonged, by her very constitution, to that philosophical order of people who, while having feelings, and thoughts, and intelligence, live somehow only halfway, look at life with half an eye, and seeing its upsetting struggles and anxieties, say: "Let them rage, the fools! So much the worse for them."

"Greetings, sister!" said Platonov. "And where is Konstantin?"

"I don't know. He ought to have been back long ago. He must have gotten busy."

Chichikov paid no attention to the hostess. He was interested in looking over the dwelling of this extraordinary man. He hoped to discover in it the properties of the owner himself, as one can tell by the shell what sort of oyster or snail sits in it. But there was nothing of the sort. The rooms were completely characterless-— spacious, and nothing else. No frescoes, no paintings on the walls, no bronzes on the tables, no whatnots with china or cups, no vases of flowers or statuettes—in short, it was somehow bare. Plain, ordinary furniture, and a grand piano standing to one side, and covered with dust at that: apparently the mistress rarely sat down to it. From the drawing room [the door opened to the master's study] [iii] ; but there, too, everything was the same—plain and bare. One could see that the owner came home only to rest, not to live there; that for thinking over his plans and ideas he had no need of a study with upholstered armchairs and various comfortable conveniences, and that his life consisted not of charming reveries by the blazing fireplace, but of real business. His thoughts proceeded at once from circumstances, the moment they presented themselves, and turned at once into business, without any need of being written down.

"Ah! here he is! He's coming, he's coming!" said Platonov.

Chichikov also rushed to the window. A man of about forty, lively, with a swarthy appearance, was coming up to the porch. He was wearing a velour peaked cap. On both sides of him, their hats off, walked two persons of lower rank—walked, talking and discussing something with him. One seemed to be a simple muzhik; the other, in a blue sibirka, [62] some foxy-looking itinerant dealer.

"Order them to take it, then, my dear!" the muzhik said, bowing.

"No, brother, I've already told you twenty times: don't bring any more. I've got so much material stored up that I don't know what to do with it."

"With you, dear Konstantin Fyodorovich, it will all be put to use. Such a clever man as you is not to be found in the whole world. Your healthfulness will find a place for anything. So give orders to take it."

"I need hands, brother; bring me workers, not materials."

"But you won't lack for workers. Whole villages of ours will come to be hired: the breadlessness was such that no one remembers the like of it. It's a pity you won't just take us, you'd get tried and true service from us, by God you would. With you one gets ever wiser, Konstantin Fyodorovich. So give orders to take it for the last time."

"But you said before that it would be the last time, and now you've brought it again."

"For the last time, Konstantin Fyodorovich. If you don't accept it, no one will. So order them to take it, my dear."

"Well, listen, this time I'll take it, and that only out of pity, so that you won't have brought it in vain. But if you bring it next time, you can whine for three weeks—I won't take it."

"Yes, sir, Konstantin Fyodorovich; rest assured, next time I won't ever bring it. I humbly thank you." The muzhik went away pleased. He was lying, however, he would bring it again: "maybe" is a great little word.

"Now then, Konstantin Fyodorovich, sir, do me a kindness . . . knock off a bit," said the itinerant dealer in the blue sibirka, who was walking on the other side of him.

"You see, I told you from the very start. I'm not fond of bargaining. I tell you again: I'm not like some other landowner whom you get at just as his mortgage payment is due. Don't I know you all! You've got the lists and know who has to pay and when. So, what could be simpler? He's pressed, he gives it to you for half the price. But what's your money to me? My things can go on lying there for three years! I have no mortgage to pay ..."

"It's real business, Konstantin Fyodorovich. No, sir, it's so that I . . . it's only so as to have dealings with you in the future, and not for anything mercenary. Kindly accept a little deposit of three thousand."

The dealer took a wad of greasy bills from his breast pocket.

Kostanzhoglo took them with great coolness, and put them into the back pocket of his frock coat without counting them.

"Hm," thought Chichikov, "just as if it were a handkerchief!"

A moment later Kostanzhoglo appeared in the doorway of the drawing room.

"Hah, brother, you're here!" he said, seeing Platonov. They embraced and kissed each other. Platonov introduced Chichikov. Chichikov reverently approached the host, planted a kiss on his cheek, and received from him the impression of a kiss.

Kostanzhoglo's face was very remarkable. It betrayed its southern origin. His hair and eyebrows were dark and thick, his eyes eloquent, brightly gleaming. Intelligence shone in every expression of his face, and there was nothing sleepy in it. One could notice, however, an admixture of something bilious and embittered. What, in fact, was his nationality? There are many Russians in Russia who are of non-Russian origin but are nevertheless Russians in their souls. Kostanzhoglo was not interested in his origins, finding the question beside the point and quite useless for the household. Besides, he knew no other language than Russian.

"Do you know what has occurred to me, Konstantin?" said Platonov.

"What?"

"It has occurred to me to take a trip over various provinces; maybe it will cure my spleen."

"Why not? It's quite possible."

"Together with Pavel Ivanovich here."

"Wonderful! And to what parts," Kostanzhoglo asked, addressing Chichikov affably, "do you now purpose to travel?"

"I confess," said Chichikov, inclining his head to one side and grasping the armrest of the chair with his hand, "I am traveling, for the moment, not so much on my own necessity as on another's. General Betrishchev, a close friend and, one might say, benefactor, asked me to visit his relatives. Relatives are relatives, of course, but it is partly, so to speak, for my own self as well; because, indeed, to say nothing of the good that may come from it in the hemorrhoidal respect, the fact alone that one sees the world, the circulation of people . . . whatever they may say, it is, so to speak, a living book, the same as learning."

"Yes, it does no harm to peek into certain corners."

"An excellent observation, if you please," Chichikov adverted, "indeed, it does no harm. You see things you wouldn't see otherwise; you meet people you wouldn't meet otherwise. Conversing with some people is as good as gold. Teach me, my most esteemed Konstantin Fyodorovich, teach me, I appeal to you. I wait for your sweet words as for manna."

Kostanzhoglo was embarrassed.

"What, though? . . . teach you what? I have only a pennyworth of education myself."

"Wisdom, my most esteemed sir, wisdom! the wisdom for managing an estate as you do; for obtaining an assured income as you have; for acquiring property as you do, not dreamlike, but substantial, and thereby fulfilling the duty of a citizen and earning the respect of one's compatriots."

"You know what?" said Kostanzhoglo, "stay with me for a day. I'll show you all my management and tell you about everything. There isn't any wisdom involved, as you'll see."