Dead Souls

Selifan was stern all the way and at the same time very attentive to his business, which always happened with him either after he had been found at fault in something, or after he had been been drunk. The horses were surprisingly well-groomed. The collar of one of them, hitherto always torn, so that the oakum kept coming out from under the leather, had been skillfully stitched up. He kept silent all the way, only cracking his whip, and not addressing any edifying speeches to his horses, though the dapple-gray would, of course, have liked to hear something admonitory, because at such times the reins lay somehow lazily in the loquacious driver's hands, and the whip wandered over their backs only for the sake of form. But this time from the sullen lips there came only monotonously unpleasant exclamations: "Come on, come on, mooncalf ! wake up! wake up!" and nothing more. Even the bay and Assessor were displeased, not once hearing either "my gentles" or "honored friends." The dapple-gray felt most disagreeable strokes on his broad and full parts. "Just look how he's got himself going!" he thought, twitching his ears slightly. "Don't worry, he knows where to hit! He won't whip right on the back, he goes and chooses a tenderer spot: catches the ears, or flicks you under the belly."

"To the right, is it?" With this dry question Selifan turned to the girl sitting next to him, and pointed with his whip to a rain-blackened road between bright green, freshened fields.

"No, no, I'll show you," the girl replied.

"Where, then?" said Selifan, when they came nearer.

"There's where," replied the girl, pointing with her hand.

"Eh, you!" said Selifan. "But that is to the right: she doesn't know right from left!"

Although the day was very fine, the earth had turned so much to mud that the wheels of the britzka, picking it up, soon became covered with it as with thick felt, which made the carriage considerably heavier; besides, the soil was clayey and extraordinarily tenacious. The one and the other were the reason why they could not get off the back roads before noon. Without the girl it would have been hard to do even that, because the roads went crawling in all directions like caught crayfish dumped out of a sack, and Selifan would have rambled about through no fault of his own.

Soon the girl pointed her hand at a building blackening in the distance, saying:

"There's the high road."

"And the building?" asked Selifan.

"A tavern," said the girl.

"Well, now we can get along by ourselves," said Selifan, "so home you go."

He stopped and helped her get down, saying through his teeth: "Ugh, you blacklegs!"

Chichikov gave her a copper, and she trudged off homewards, pleased enough that she had gotten to ride on the box.

Chapter Four

Driving up to the tavern, Chichikov ordered a stop for two reasons. On the one hand, so that the horses could rest, and on the other hand, so that he could have a little snack and fortify himself. The author must admit that he is quite envious of the appetite and stomach of this sort of people. To him those gentlemen of the grand sort mean decidedly nothing, who live in Petersburg or Moscow, spend their time pondering what they would like to eat the next day and what dinner to devise for the day after, and who will not partake of that dinner without first sending a pill into their mouths; who swallow oysters, sea spiders, and other marvels, and then set off for Karlsbad or the Caucasus.[9] No, those gentlemen have never aroused envy in him. But gentlemen of the middling sort, those who order ham at one station, suckling pig at another, a hunk of sturgeon or some baked sausage with onions at a third, and then sit down to table as if nothing had happened, whenever you like, and a sterlet soup with burbot and soft roe hisses and gurgles between their teeth, accompanied by a tart or pie with catfish tails, so that even a vicarious appetite is piqued— now, these gentlemen indeed enjoy an enviable gift from heaven! More than one gentleman of the grand sort would instantly sacrifice half of his peasant souls and half of his estates, mortgaged and unmortgaged, with all improvements on a foreign or Russian footing, only so as to have a stomach such as a gentleman of the middling sort has; but the trouble is that no amount of money, no estates with or without improvements, can buy such a stomach as the gentleman of the middling sort happens to have.

The weathered wooden tavern received Chichikov under its narrow, hospitable porch roof on turned wooden posts, resembling old church candlestands. The tavern was rather like a Russian peasant cottage, on a somewhat bigger scale. Carved lacy cornices of fresh wood around the windows and under the eaves stood out in sharp and vivid patches against its dark walls; pots of flowers were painted on the shutters.