Dead Souls

They had already risen from the table. Manilov was exceedingly pleased and, supporting his guest's back with his arm, was preparing to escort him thus into the drawing room, when the guest suddenly announced with a rather significant air that he intended to discuss with him a certain very necessary matter.

"In that case allow me to invite you to my study," said Manilov, and he led him to a small room with a window looking out on the bluing forest. "Here's my little corner," said Manilov.

"An agreeable little room," said Chichikov, looking it over.

The room was, indeed, not without agreeableness: walls painted a pretty light blue like a sort of gray, four chairs, one armchair, a table, on which lay the book with the bookmark in it, of which we have already had occasion to make mention, several scribbled-on sheets of paper, but mainly there was tobacco. It was in various forms: in paper packets, in the tobacco jar, and, finally, simply poured out in a heap on the table. On both windowsills were also placed little piles of knocked-out pipe ash, arranged not without assiduousness in very handsome rows. It could be observed that this sometimes provided the host with a pastime.

"Allow me to invite you to settle yourself in this armchair," said Manilov. "You'll be more comfortable here."

"I'll sit on a straight chair, if you'll allow me."

"Allow me not to allow you," Manilov said with a smile. "This armchair is reserved for guests: whether you like it or not, you'll have to sit in it."

Chichikov sat down.

"Allow me to treat you to a little pipe."

"No, I don't smoke," Chichikov replied tenderly and as if with an air of regret.

"Why not?" said Manilov, also tenderly and with an air of regret.

"I'm not in the habit, I'm afraid; they say the pipe dries one up."

"Allow me to point out to you that that is a prejudice. I even suppose that to smoke a pipe is much healthier than to take snuff. There was a lieutenant in our regiment, a most wonderful and most educated man, who never let the pipe out of his mouth, not only at table but even, if I may be allowed to say so, in all other places. And here he is now already forty-some years old, and yet, thank God, he's still as healthy as can be."

Chichikov observed that that did indeed happen, and that there were many things in nature which were inexplicable even for a vast mind.

"But first allow me one request. . . ," he uttered in a voice that rang with some strange or almost strange expression, and after that, for no apparent reason, he looked behind him. Manilov, too, for no apparent reason, looked behind him. "How long ago were you so good as to file your census report?"

"Oh, long ago now; or, rather, I don't remember."

"And since that time how many of your peasants have died?"

"I have no way of knowing; that's something I suppose you must ask the steward. Hey, boy! call the steward, he should be here today."

The steward appeared. He was a man approaching forty, who shaved his beard, wore a frock coat, and apparently led a very comfortable life, because his face had about it the look of a certain puffy plumpness, and his little eyes and the yellowish tint of his skin showed that he knew all too well what goose down and feather beds were. One could see at once that he had made his way in life as all estate stewards do: had first been simply a literate boy about the house, then married some housekeeper Agashka, the mistress's favorite, became a housekeeper himself, and then steward. And having become steward, he behaved, naturally, like all stewards: hobnobbed with villagers of the wealthier sort; put additional taxes on the poorer ones; woke up past eight in the morning, waited for the samovar, and drank his tea.

"Listen, my good man! how many of our peasants have died since we filed the census report?"

"Who knows? Quite a lot have died since then," said the steward, and with that he hiccuped, covering his mouth slightly with his hand, as with a little screen.

"Yes, I confess, I thought so myself," Manilov picked up, "precisely, quite a lot have died!" Here he turned to Chichikov and added again: "Exactly, quite a lot."

"How many, for instance?" asked Chichikov.

"Yes, how many?" picked up Manilov.

"Who knows how many? It's not known what number died, nobody counted them."

"Yes, precisely," said Manilov, turning to Chichikov, "I thought so, too, a high mortality; it's quite unknown how many died."

"Count them all up, please," said Chichikov, "and make a detailed list of them all by name."

"Yes, all by name," said Manilov.

The steward said "Yes, sir!" and left.

"And for what reasons do you need this?" Manilov asked after the steward had gone.

This question, it seemed, embarrassed the guest, on whose face there appeared a sort of strained expression, which even made him blush—the strain of expressing something not quite amenable to words. And, indeed, Manilov finally heard such strange and extraordinary things as had never yet been heard by human ears.