Dead Souls

"Away, I tell you!" he said, with that inexplicable feeling of disgust that a man feels at the sight of an extremely ugly insect that he does not have the courage to crush underfoot. He gave such a shake that Chichikov felt the boot strike his nose, lips, and nicely rounded chin, but he would not let go of the boot and held the leg still harder in his embrace. Two hefty policemen pulled him away by force, and, holding him under his arms, led him through all the rooms. He was pale, crushed, in the insensibly frightful state of a man who sees black, inescapable death before him, that fright which is contrary to our nature . . .

Just at the doorway to the stairs they ran into Murazov. A ray of hope suddenly flickered. Instantly, with unnatural force, he tore from the grip of the two policemen and threw himself at the feet of the amazed old man.

"Pavel Ivanovich, my dear fellow, what's happened?"

"Save me! they're taking me to jail, to death ...”

The policemen seized him and led him away without allowing him to be heard.

A dank, chill closet with the smell of the boots and leg wrappings of garrison soldiers, an unpainted table, two vile chairs, a window with an iron grate, a decrepit woodstove, through the cracks of which smoke came without giving any warmth—this was the dwelling in which they placed our hero, who had just begun to taste the sweetness of life and attract the attention of his compatriots in his fine new tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino. He was not even given time to arrange to take the necessary things with him, to take the chest with the money in it. His papers, the deeds of purchase for the dead souls—the officials now had it all! He collapsed on the ground, and the carnivorous worm of terrible, hopeless sorrow wrapped itself around his heart. With increasing speed it began to gnaw at his heart, all unprotected as it was. Another day like that, another day of such sorrow, and there would be no Chichikov in this world at all. But someone's all-saving hand did not slumber even over Chichikov. An hour later the door of the jail opened: old Murazov came in.

If someone tormented by parching thirst were to have a stream of spring water poured down his dry throat, he would not revive as poor Chichikov did.

"My savior!" said Chichikov, and, suddenly seizing his hand, he quickly kissed it and pressed it to his breast. "May God reward you for visiting an unfortunate man!"

He dissolved in tears.

The old man looked at him with mournfully pained eyes and said only:

"Ah, Pavel Ivanovich! Pavel Ivanovich, what have you done?"

"I am a scoundrel. . . Guilty ... I transgressed . . . But consider, consider, can they treat me like this? I am a nobleman. Without a trial, without an investigation, to throw me into jail, to take away everything—my things, my chest. . . there's money in it, all my property, all my property is in it, Afanasy Vassilyevich—property I acquired by sweating blood ..."

And, unable to restrain the impulse of sorrow again overwhelming his heart, he sobbed loudly, in a voice that pierced the thick walls of the jail and echoed dully in the distance, tore off his satin tie, and, clutching at his collar with his hand, tore his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino.

"Pavel Ivanovich, it makes no difference: you must bid farewell to your property and to all there is in the world. You have fallen under the implacable law, not under the power of some man."

"I have been my own ruin, I know it—I did not know how to stop in time. But why such a terrible punishment, Afanasy Vassilyevich? Am I a robber? Has anyone suffered from me? Have I made anyone unhappy? By toil and sweat, by sweating blood, I procured my kopeck. Why did I procure this kopeck? In order to live out the rest of my days in comfort, to leave something to my children, whom I intended to acquire for the good, for the service of the fatherland. I erred, I don't deny it, I erred . . . what to do? But I erred because I saw that I'd get nowhere on the straight path, and that to go crookedly was straighten But I toiled, I strained. And these scoundrels who sit in the courts taking thousands from the treasury or robbing people who aren't rich, filching the last kopeck from those who have nothing. . . Afanasy Vassilyevich! I did not fornicate, I did not drink. And so much work, so much iron patience! Yes, it could be said that every kopeck I procured was redeemed with sufferings, sufferings! Let one of them suffer as I did! What has my whole life been: a bitter struggle, a ship amidst the waves. And, Afanasy Vassilyevich, I have lost what was acquired with such struggle ..."

He did not finish and sobbed loudly from unendurable heartache, collapsed on the chair, ripped off the torn, hanging skirt of his tailcoat and flung it away from him, and, putting both hands to his hair, which before he had zealously tried to strengthen, he tore it mercilessly, delighting in the pain with which he hoped to stifle his unquenchable heartache.