Dead Souls

The reader has perhaps already guessed that the visitor was none other than our respected, long-abandoned Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov. He had aged slightly: one could see that the time had not been without storms and anxieties for him. It seemed as if the very tailcoat on him had aged slightly, and that the britzka, and the coachman, and the servant, and the horses, and the harness were all as if a bit more scuffed and worn. It seemed as if the finances themselves were not in an enviable state. But the expression of his face, the decency, the manners had remained the same. He had even become as if still more agreeable in his movements and ways, still more deftly tucked his feet under when sitting in an armchair; there was still more softness in the enunciation of his speech, more prudent moderation in his words and expressions, more skill in his comportment, and more tact in everything. Whiter and cleaner than snow were his collar and shirtfront, and though he had only just come from the road, there was not a bit of fluff on his tailcoat—fit even for a party! His cheeks and chin were so clean-shaven that only a blind man could fail to admire their pleasant prominence and roundness.

In the house a transformation took place. Half of it, hitherto abiding in blindness, with nailed shutters, suddenly recovered its sight and lit up. Luggage began to be carried in from the britzka. Everything began to settle itself in the lighted rooms, and soon it all acquired the following look: the room that was to be the bedroom accommodated the things necessary for the evening toilet; the room that was to be the study . . . But first of all it should be known that there were three tables in this room: one a writing table in front of the sofa, the second a card table between the windows by the wall, the third a corner table in the corner between the door to the bedroom and the door to a large, uninhabited room filled with disabled furniture. This corner table accommodated the clothing taken from the trunk—namely, trousers to go with a tailcoat, trousers to go with a frock coat, gray trousers, two velvet waistcoats and two of satin, a frock coat, and two tailcoats. (The white piqué waistcoats and summer trousers joined the linen in the chest of drawers.) All of this was stacked up in a little pyramid and covered with a silk handkerchief. In another corner, between the door and the window, boots were lined up side by side: boots that were not quite new, boots that were quite new, boots with new uppers, and patent leather shoes. These, too, were modestly curtained off by a silk handkerchief, as if they were not there. On the table between the two windows the little chest found a place for itself. On the writing table in front of the sofa— a briefcase, a bottle of eau de cologne, sealing wax, toothbrushes, a new calendar, and a couple of novels, both second volumes. The clean linen was put into a chest of drawers that was already in the room; the linen that was to go to the washerwoman was tied in a bundle and shoved under the bed. The trunk, once it was unpacked, was also shoved under the bed. The sword, too, found its place in the bedroom, hanging on a nail not far from the bed. Both rooms acquired a look of extraordinary cleanness and neatness. Not a scrap, not a speck, not a bit of litter. The very air became somehow ennobled. In it there was established the pleasant smell of a healthy, fresh man, who does not wear his linen long, goes to the bathhouse, and wipes himself with a wet sponge on Sundays. In a vestibule, the smell of the servant Petrushka first presumed to establish itself, but Petrushka was promptly relocated to the kitchen where he belonged.