Dead Souls (25 page)

In fact, to refine the Russian tongue the more thoroughly, something
like half the words in it were cut out: which circumstance
necessitated very frequent recourse to the tongue of France, since the
same words, if spoken in French, were another matter altogether, and
one could use even blunter ones than the ones originally objected to.

So much for the ladies of N., provided that one confines one's
observations to the surface; yet hardly need it be said that, should
one penetrate deeper than that, a great deal more would come to light.
At the same time, it is never a very safe proceeding to peer deeply
into the hearts of ladies; wherefore, restricting ourselves to the
foregoing superficialities, let us proceed further on our way.

Hitherto the ladies had paid Chichikov no particular attention, though
giving him full credit for his gentlemanly and urbane demeanour; but
from the moment that there arose rumours of his being a millionaire
other qualities of his began to be canvassed. Nevertheless, not ALL
the ladies were governed by interested motives, since it is due to the
term "millionaire" rather than to the character of the person who
bears it, that the mere sound of the word exercises upon rascals, upon
decent folk, and upon folk who are neither the one nor the other, an
undeniable influence. A millionaire suffers from the disadvantage of
everywhere having to behold meanness, including the sort of meanness
which, though not actually based upon calculations of self-interest,
yet runs after the wealthy man with smiles, and doffs his hat, and
begs for invitations to houses where the millionaire is known to be
going to dine. That a similar inclination to meanness seized upon the
ladies of N. goes without saying; with the result that many a
drawing-room heard it whispered that, if Chichikov was not exactly a
beauty, at least he was sufficiently good-looking to serve for a
husband, though he could have borne to have been a little more rotund
and stout. To that there would be added scornful references to lean
husbands, and hints that they resembled tooth-brushes rather than
men—with many other feminine additions. Also, such crowds of feminine
shoppers began to repair to the Bazaar as almost to constitute a
crush, and something like a procession of carriages ensued, so long
grew the rank of vehicles. For their part, the tradesmen had the joy
of seeing highly priced dress materials which they had brought at
fairs, and then been unable to dispose of, now suddenly become
tradeable, and go off with a rush. For instance, on one occasion a
lady appeared at Mass in a bustle which filled the church to an extent
which led the verger on duty to bid the commoner folk withdraw to the
porch, lest the lady's toilet should be soiled in the crush. Even
Chichikov could not help privately remarking the attention which he
aroused. On one occasion, when he returned to the inn, he found on his
table a note addressed to himself. Whence it had come, and who had
delivered it, he failed to discover, for the waiter declared that the
person who had brought it had omitted to leave the name of the writer.
Beginning abruptly with the words "I MUST write to you," the letter
went on to say that between a certain pair of souls there existed a
bond of sympathy; and this verity the epistle further confirmed with
rows of full stops to the extent of nearly half a page. Next there
followed a few reflections of a correctitude so remarkable that I have
no choice but to quote them. "What, I would ask, is this life of
ours?" inquired the writer. "'Tis nought but a vale of woe. And what,
I would ask, is the world? 'Tis nought but a mob of unthinking
humanity." Thereafter, incidentally remarking that she had just
dropped a tear to the memory of her dear mother, who had departed this
life twenty-five years ago, the (presumably) lady writer invited
Chichikov to come forth into the wilds, and to leave for ever the city
where, penned in noisome haunts, folk could not even draw their
breath. In conclusion, the writer gave way to unconcealed despair, and
wound up with the following verses:

"Two turtle doves to thee, one day,
My dust will show, congealed in death;
And, cooing wearily, they'll say:
'In grief and loneliness she drew her closing breath.'"

True, the last line did not scan, but that was a trifle, since the
quatrain at least conformed to the mode then prevalent. Neither
signature nor date were appended to the document, but only a
postscript expressing a conjecture that Chichikov's own heart would
tell him who the writer was, and stating, in addition, that the said
writer would be present at the Governor's ball on the following night.

This greatly interested Chichikov. Indeed, there was so much that was
alluring and provocative of curiosity in the anonymous missive that he
read it through a second time, and then a third, and finally said to
himself: "I SHOULD like to know who sent it!" In short, he took the
thing seriously, and spent over an hour in considering the same. At
length, muttering a comment upon the epistle's efflorescent style, he
refolded the document, and committed it to his dispatch-box in company
with a play-bill and an invitation to a wedding—the latter of which
had for the last seven years reposed in the self-same receptacle and
in the self-same position. Shortly afterwards there arrived a card of
invitation to the Governor's ball already referred to. In passing, it
may be said that such festivities are not infrequent phenomena in
county towns, for the reason that where Governors exist there must
take place balls if from the local gentry there is to be evoked that
respectful affection which is every Governor's due.

Thenceforth all extraneous thoughts and considerations were laid aside
in favour of preparing for the coming function. Indeed, this
conjunction of exciting and provocative motives led to Chichikov
devoting to his toilet an amount of time never witnessed since the
creation of the world. Merely in the contemplation of his features in
the mirror, as he tried to communicate to them a succession of varying
expressions, was an hour spent. First of all he strove to make his
features assume an air of dignity and importance, and then an air of
humble, but faintly satirical, respect, and then an air of respect
guiltless of any alloy whatsoever. Next, he practised performing a
series of bows to his reflection, accompanied with certain murmurs
intended to bear a resemblance to a French phrase (though Chichikov
knew not a single word of the Gallic tongue). Lastly came the
performing of a series of what I might call "agreeable surprises," in
the shape of twitchings of the brow and lips and certain motions of
the tongue. In short, he did all that a man is apt to do when he is
not only alone, but also certain that he is handsome and that no one
is regarding him through a chink. Finally he tapped himself lightly on
the chin, and said, "Ah, good old face!" In the same way, when he
started to dress himself for the ceremony, the level of his high
spirits remained unimpaired throughout the process. That is to say,
while adjusting his braces and tying his tie, he shuffled his feet in
what was not exactly a dance, but might be called the entr'acte of a
dance: which performance had the not very serious result of setting a
wardrobe a-rattle, and causing a brush to slide from the table to the
floor.

Later, his entry into the ballroom produced an extraordinary effect.
Every one present came forward to meet him, some with cards in their
hands, and one man even breaking off a conversation at the most
interesting point—namely, the point that "the Inferior Land Court
must be made responsible for everything." Yes, in spite of the
responsibility of the Inferior Land Court, the speaker cast all
thoughts of it to the winds as he hurried to greet our hero. From
every side resounded acclamations of welcome, and Chichikov felt
himself engulfed in a sea of embraces. Thus, scarcely had he
extricated himself from the arms of the President of the Local Council
when he found himself just as firmly clasped in the arms of the Chief
of Police, who, in turn, surrendered him to the Inspector of the
Medical Department, who, in turn, handed him over to the Commissioner
of Taxes, who, again, committed him to the charge of the Town
Architect. Even the Governor, who hitherto had been standing among his
womenfolk with a box of sweets in one hand and a lap-dog in the other,
now threw down both sweets and lap-dog (the lap-dog giving vent to a
yelp as he did so) and added his greeting to those of the rest of the
company. Indeed, not a face was there to be seen on which ecstatic
delight—or, at all events, the reflection of other people's ecstatic
delight—was not painted. The same expression may be discerned on the
faces of subordinate officials when, the newly arrived Director having
made his inspection, the said officials are beginning to get over
their first sense of awe on perceiving that he has found much to
commend, and that he can even go so far as to jest and utter a few
words of smiling approval. Thereupon every tchinovnik responds with a
smile of double strength, and those who (it may be) have not heard a
single word of the Director's speech smile out of sympathy with the
rest, and even the gendarme who is posted at the distant door—a man,
perhaps, who has never before compassed a smile, but is more
accustomed to dealing out blows to the populace—summons up a kind of
grin, even though the grin resembles the grimace of a man who is about
to sneeze after inadvertently taking an over-large pinch of snuff. To
all and sundry Chichikov responded with a bow, and felt
extraordinarily at his ease as he did so. To right and left did he
incline his head in the sidelong, yet unconstrained, manner that was
his wont and never failed to charm the beholder. As for the ladies,
they clustered around him in a shining bevy that was redolent of every
species of perfume—of roses, of spring violets, and of mignonette; so
much so that instinctively Chichikov raised his nose to snuff the air.
Likewise the ladies' dresses displayed an endless profusion of taste
and variety; and though the majority of their wearers evinced a
tendency to embonpoint, those wearers knew how to call upon art for
the concealment of the fact. Confronting them, Chichikov thought to
himself: "Which of these beauties is the writer of the letter?" Then
again he snuffed the air. When the ladies had, to a certain extent,
returned to their seats, he resumed his attempts to discern (from
glances and expressions) which of them could possibly be the unknown
authoress. Yet, though those glances and expressions were too subtle,
too insufficiently open, the difficulty in no way diminished his high
spirits. Easily and gracefully did he exchange agreeable bandinage
with one lady, and then approach another one with the short, mincing
steps usually affected by young-old dandies who are fluttering around
the fair. As he turned, not without dexterity, to right and left, he
kept one leg slightly dragging behind the other, like a short tail or
comma. This trick the ladies particularly admired. In short, they not
only discovered in him a host of recommendations and attractions, but
also began to see in his face a sort of grand, Mars-like, military
expression—a thing which, as we know, never fails to please the
feminine eye. Certain of the ladies even took to bickering over him,
and, on perceiving that he spent most of his time standing near the
door, some of their number hastened to occupy chairs nearer to his
post of vantage. In fact, when a certain dame chanced to have the good
fortune to anticipate a hated rival in the race there very nearly
ensued a most lamentable scene—which, to many of those who had been
desirous of doing exactly the same thing, seemed a peculiarly horrible
instance of brazen-faced audacity.

So deeply did Chichikov become plunged in conversation with his fair
pursuers—or rather, so deeply did those fair pursuers enmesh him in
the toils of small talk (which they accomplished through the expedient
of asking him endless subtle riddles which brought the sweat to his
brow in his attempts to guess them)—that he forgot the claims of
courtesy which required him first of all to greet his hostess. In
fact, he remembered those claims only on hearing the Governor's wife
herself addressing him. She had been standing before him for several
minutes, and now greeted him with suave expressement and the words,
"So HERE you are, Paul Ivanovitch!" But what she said next I am not
in a position to report, for she spoke in the ultra-refined tone and
vein wherein ladies and gentlemen customarily express themselves in
high-class novels which have been written by experts more qualified
than I am to describe salons, and able to boast of some acquaintance
with good society. In effect, what the Governor's wife said was that
she hoped—she greatly hoped—that Monsieur Chichikov's heart still
contained a corner—even the smallest possible corner—for those whom
he had so cruelly forgotten. Upon that Chichikov turned to her, and
was on the point of returning a reply at least no worse than that
which would have been returned, under similar circumstances, by the
hero of a fashionable novelette, when he stopped short, as though
thunderstruck.

Before him there was standing not only Madame, but also a young girl
whom she was holding by the hand. The golden hair, the fine-drawn,
delicate contours, the face with its bewitching oval—a face which
might have served as a model for the countenance of the Madonna, since
it was of a type rarely to be met with in Russia, where nearly
everything, from plains to human feet, is, rather, on the gigantic
scale; these features, I say, were those of the identical maiden whom
Chichikov had encountered on the road when he had been fleeing from
Nozdrev's. His emotion was such that he could not formulate a single
intelligible syllable; he could merely murmur the devil only knows
what, though certainly nothing of the kind which would have risen to
the lips of the hero of a fashionable novel.