Dead Souls

"There is this aunt of mine who's good for three million," said Khlobuev, "a pious little old lady: she gives to churches and monasteries, but she's a bit tight about helping her neighbor. And she's a very remarkable little old lady. An aunt from olden times, worth having a look at. She has some four hundred canaries alone. Lapdogs, and lady companions, and servants such as don't exist nowadays. The youngest of her servants is about sixty, though she shouts 'Hey, boy!' to him. If a guest behaves improperly somehow, she orders him bypassed one course at dinner. And they actually do it."

Platonov laughed.

"And what is her last name, and where does she live?" asked Chichikov.

"She lives here in town—Alexandra Ivanovna Khanasarova."

"Why don't you turn to her?" Platonov said sympathetically.

"It seems to me, if she just entered a little more into the situation of your family, she'd be unable to refuse you, however tight she is."

"Ah, no, quite able! My aunt has a hard character. This little old lady is a rock, Platon Mikhalych! And there are already enough toadies hanging around her without me. There's one there who is after a governorship, foisted himself off as her relative . . . God help him! maybe he'll succeed! God help them all! I never knew how to fawn, and now less than ever: my back doesn't bend anymore."

"Fool!" thought Chichikov. "I'd look after such an aunt like a nanny looking after a child!"

"Well, now, such talk makes one dry," said Khlobuev. "Hey, Kiryushka! bring us another bottle of champagne."

"No, no, I won't drink any more," said Platonov.

"Nor I," said Chichikov. And they both declined resolutely.

"Then at least give me your word that you'll visit me in town: on the eighth of June I'm giving a dinner for our town dignitaries."

"For pity's sake!" exclaimed Platonov. "In this situation, completely ruined—and still giving dinners?"

"What can I do? I must. It's my duty," said Khlobuev. "They've also invited me."

"What's to be done with him?" thought Platonov. He still did not know that in Russia, in Moscow and other cities, there are such wizards to be found, whose life is an inexplicable riddle. He seems to have spent everything, is up to his ears in debt, has no resources anywhere, and the dinner that is being given promises to be the last; and the diners think that by the next day the host will be dragged off to prison. Ten years pass after that—the wizard is still holding out in the world, is up to his ears in debt more than ever, and still gives a dinner in the same way, and everybody thinks it will be the last, and everybody is sure that the next day the host will be dragged off to prison. Khlobuev was such a wizard. Only in Russia can one exist in such a way. Having nothing, he welcomed visitors, gave parties, and even patronized and encouraged all sorts of actors passing through town, boarded them and lodged them in his house. If someone were to peek into the house he had in town, he would never know who the owner was. One day a priest in vestments served a molieben[65]there, the next day French actors were having a rehearsal. Once someone unknown to nearly everyone in the house installed himself in the drawing room with his papers and set up an office there, without embarrassing or troubling anyone in the house, as if it were an ordinary thing. Sometimes there was not a crumb in the house for whole days, and sometimes such dinners were given as would satisfy the taste of the most refined gastronome. The host would appear festive, gay, with the bearing of a wealthy gentleman, with the step of a man whose life is spent amid ease and plenty. At times, on the other hand, there were such hard moments that someone else in his place would have hanged or shot himself. But he was saved by a religious sense, which was strangely combined in him with his wayward life. In these hard, bitter moments he would open a book and read the lives of those toilers and sufferers who trained their spirit to rise above sufferings and misfortunes. His soul softened at such times, his spirit became tender, and his eyes filled with tears. And—strange thing!—at such moments unexpected help would always come to him from somewhere. Either one of his old friends would remember him and send him money; or some unknown lady traveler, chancing to hear his story, would, with the impetuous magnanimity of a woman's heart, send him a generous donation; or some lawsuit, of which he had never heard, would be won in his favor. With reverence, with gratitude, he would then acknowledge the boundless mercy of Providence, have a molieben of thanksgiving served, and— again begin his wayward life.

"I'm sorry for him, really, I am!" Platonov said to Chichikov, when, after saying good-bye, they left him.

"A prodigal son!" said Chichikov. "There's no point in being sorry for such people."