Dead Souls

The general struck him with his majestic appearance. He was, at that moment, dressed in a raspberry satin dressing gown. An open look, a manly face, grizzled side-whiskers and a big mustache, hair cut short and even shaved at the nape, a thick, broad neck, in three stories, as they say, or three folds with a crease across the middle, the voice a bass with some huskiness, the movements those of a general. Like all of us sinners, General Betrishchev was endowed with many virtues and many defects. Both the one and the other were scattered through him in a sort of picturesque disorder. Self-sacrifice, magnanimity in decisive moments, courage, intelligence—and with all that, a generous mixture of self-love, ambition, vanity, petty personal ticklishness, and a good many of those things which a man simply cannot do without. He disliked all those who got ahead of him in the service, spoke of them caustically, in pointed, sardonic epigrams. Most of it hit at a former colleague, whom he considered his inferior in intelligence and abilities, but who had nevertheless outstripped him and was already the Governor-general of two provinces, and, as if by design, of the very ones in which his own estates were located, so that he found himself as if dependent on him. In revenge, he derided him at every opportunity, criticized his every directive, and looked upon all his measures and actions as the height of folly. Despite his good heart, the general was given to mockery. Broadly speaking, he liked being first, liked incense, liked to shine and display his intelligence, liked knowing things that others did not know, and did not like those who knew something he did not know. Brought up with a half-foreign upbringing, he wanted at the same time to play the role of a Russian squire. With such unevenness of character, with such big, striking contrasts, he was inevitably bound to meet with a heap of troubles in the service, as a result of which he took his retirement, accusing some enemy party of everything and not having enough magnanimity to blame himself for any of it. In retirement he preserved the same picturesque, majestic bearing. In a frock coat, a tailcoat, or a dressing gown—he was the same. From his voice to his least gesture, everything in him was imperious, commanding, inspiring, if not respect, then at least timidity in the lower ranks.

Chichikov felt both the one and the other: both respect and timidity. Inclining his head respectfully to one side, he began thus:

"I felt it my duty to introduce myself to Your Excellency. Nursing the greatest respect for the men of valor who have saved the fatherland on the field of battle, I felt it my duty to introduce myself personally to Your Excellency."

The general obviously did not dislike this sort of assault. With a rather gracious motion of his head, he said:

"Very glad to meet you. Pray be seated. Where did you serve?"

"My career in the service," said Chichikov, sitting down not in the center of the armchair, but obliquely, and grasping the armrest with his hand, "began in the treasury department, Your Excellency; and the further course of same was pursued in various places: I was in the civil courts, on a building commission, and in customs. My life may be likened to a ship amidst the waves, Your Excellency. I grew up, one might say, on patience, nursed by patience, swaddled by patience, and am myself, so to speak, nothing but patience. And how much I have suffered from enemies no words or colors can tell. And now, in the evening, so to speak, of my life, I am searching for a little corner in which to pass the rest of my days. And I am staying meanwhile with a near neighbor of Your Excellency's..."

"Who is that?"

"Tentetnikov, Your Excellency."

The general winced.

"He greatly regrets, Your Excellency, his not having paid due respect..."

"To what?"

"To Your Excellency's merits. Words fail him. He says: 'If only I could somehow. . . because really,' he says, 'I know how to value the men who have saved the fatherland,' he says."

"Good gracious, what's the matter with him?. . . Why, I'm not angry!" the softened general said. "In my heart I sincerely loved him, and I'm sure that in time he will become a most useful man."

"Quite correctly put, Your Excellency, if you please, a most useful man, with a gift for eloquence, and wielding a skillful pen.

"But he writes trifles, I suppose, some sort of verses?"

"No, Your Excellency, not trifles ..."

"What, then?"

"He writes . . . history, Your Excellency."

"History! The history of what?"

"The history..." here Chichikov paused, and either because there was a general sitting before him, or simply to give more importance to the subject, added: ". . . the history of generals, Your Excellency."

"How, of generals? of what generals?"

"Of generals in general, Your Excellency, overall . . . that is, as a matter of fact, the generals of the fatherland," Chichikov said, and thought to himself: "What drivel I'm pouring out!"