Dead Souls

The old man jabbed his finger towards another corner of the room. Chichikov and Manilov set out for Ivan Antonovich's. Ivan Antonovich had already cast one eye back and given them a sidelong look, but at once immersed himself more attentively in his writing.

"May I inquire," Chichikov said with a bow, "if this is the deeds section?"

Ivan Antonovich seemed not to hear and buried himself completely in paper, making no reply. One could see at once that he was already a man of reasonable age, not some young babbler and whippersnapper. Ivan Antonovich seemed already well past forty; his hair was black, thick; the whole middle of his face projected forward and went mostly into nose—in short, it was the type of face commonly known as a jug mug.

"May I inquire if this is the deeds section?" said Chichikov.

"It is," Ivan Antonovich said, swung his jug mug, and again applied himself to his writing.

"And my business is this: I've bought peasants from various owners in this district, to be resettled; I have the deed, it remains to execute it."

"And are the sellers present?"

"Some are here, and I have warrants from the others."

"And have you brought the application?"

"I have brought the application. I'd like ... I must hurry. . . so mightn't we, for instance, finish the business today?"

"Today! hm, today's impossible," said Ivan Antonovich. "Inquiries must be made, to see that there are no interdictions."

"By the way, to do with speeding the business up, Ivan Grigorievich, the head magistrate, is a great friend of mine ..."

"Yes, but Ivan Grigorievich is not the only one; others exist," Ivan Antonovich said sternly.

Chichikov understood the little hitch Ivan Antonovich had just thrown in, and said:

"The others won't come out losers, I've been in the service myself, I know the business ..."

"Go to Ivan Grigorievich," said Ivan Antonovich in a voice slightly more benign, "let him give orders in the proper places, we'll hold our end up."

Chichikov, taking a banknote from his pocket, placed it in front of Ivan Antonovich, who utterly failed to notice it and covered it at once with a book. Chichikov was about to point it out to him, but Ivan Antonovich, with a motion of his head, gave a sign that there was no need to point it out.

"This one here will take you to the front office," said Ivan Antonovich, nodding his head, and one of the votaries, right there beside them, who had been sacrificing to Themis so zealously that he had gone through both coatsleeves at the elbow and the lining had long been sticking out, for which in due time he had been made a collegiate registrar, offered his services to our friends, as Virgil once offered his services to Dante, and led them to the front office, where there stood nothing but a wide armchair and in it, at a desk, behind a zertsalo[31]and two thick books, alone as the sun, sat the magistrate. In this place the new Virgil felt such awe that he simply did not dare to set foot in it, but turned away, showing his back, threadbare as a bast mat, with a chicken feather stuck to it somewhere. Entering the chamber of the front office, they saw that the magistrate was not alone, Sobakevich was sitting with him, completely hidden by the zertsalo. The visitors' arrival produced exclamations, the governmental armchair was noisily pushed back. Sobakevich, too, rose from his chair, and he and his long sleeves became visible from all sides. The magistrate took Chichikov into his embrace, and the office resounded with kisses; they inquired after each other's health; it turned out that they both had some slight lower-back pain, which was straightaway ascribed to the sedentary life. The magistrate seemed already to have been informed of the purchase by Sobakevich, because he set about offering congratulations, which embarrassed our hero somewhat at first, especially when he saw that Sobakevich and Manilov, both sellers with whom deals had been struck in private, were now standing face to face. However, he thanked the magistrate and, turning at once to Sobakevich, asked:

"And how is your health?"

"No complaints, thank God," said Sobakevich.

And, indeed, he had nothing to complain of: iron would catch cold and start coughing sooner than this wondrously fashioned landowner.

"Yes, you've always been known for your health," said the magistrate, "and your late father was also a sturdy man."

"Yes, he used to go alone after bear," replied Sobakevich.

"It seems to me, however," said the magistrate, "that you'd also bring down your bear, if you chose to go against one."

"No, I wouldn't," replied Sobakevich, "the old man was sturdier than I am," and, sighing, he went on: "No, people aren't what they used to be; look at my life, what kind of a life is it? just sort of something ..."

"It's a fine life, isn't it?" said the magistrate.