The Giants of Russian Literature: The Greatest Russian Novels, Stories, Plays, Folk Tales & Legends. Максим Горький

the names of Plushkin’s absconded serfs. “Although you are still alive, what is the good of you? You are practically dead. Whither, I wonder, have your fugitive feet carried you? Did you fare hardly at Plushkin’s, or was it that your natural inclinations led you to prefer roaming the wilds and plundering travellers? Are you, by this time, in gaol, or have you taken service with other masters for the tillage of their lands? ‘Eremei Kariakin, Nikita Volokita and Anton Volokita (son of the foregoing).’ To judge from your surnames, you would seem to have been born gadabouts²⁹. ‘Popov, household serf.’ Probably you are an educated man, good Popov, and go in for polite thieving, as distinguished from the more vulgar cut-throat sort. In my mind’s eye I seem to see a Captain of Rural Police challenging you for being without a passport; whereupon you stake your all upon a single throw. ‘To whom do you belong?’ asks the Captain, probably adding to his question a forcible expletive. ‘To such and such a landowner,’ stoutly you reply. ‘And what are you doing here?’ continues the Captain. ‘I have just received permission to go and earn my obrok,’ is your fluent explanation. ‘Then where is your passport?’ ‘At Miestchanin³⁰ Pimenov’s.’ ‘Pimenov’s? Then are you Pimenov himself?’ ‘Yes, I am Pimenov himself.’ ‘He has given you his passport?’ ‘No, he has not given me his passport.’ ‘Come, come!’ shouts the Captain with another forcible expletive. ‘You are lying!’ ‘No, I am not,’ is your dogged reply. ‘It is only that last night I could not return him his passport, because I came home late; so I handed it to Antip Prochorov, the bell-ringer, for him to take care of.’ ‘Bell-ringer, indeed! Then HE gave you a passport?’ ‘No; I did not receive a passport from him either.’ ‘What?’— and here the Captain shouts another expletive —‘How dare you keep on lying? Where is YOUR OWN passport?’ ‘I had one all right,’ you reply cunningly, ‘but must have dropped it somewhere on the road as I came along.’ ‘And what about that soldier’s coat?’ asks the Captain with an impolite addition. ‘Whence did you get it? And what of the priest’s cashbox and copper money?’’ ‘About them I know nothing,’ you reply doggedly. ‘Never at any time have I committed a theft.’ ‘Then how is it that the coat was found at your place?’ ‘I do not know. Probably some one else put it there.’ ‘You rascal, you rascal!’ shouts the Captain, shaking his head, and closing in upon you. ‘Put the leg-irons upon him, and off with him to prison!’ ‘With pleasure,’ you reply as, taking a snuff-box from your pocket, you offer a pinch to each of the two gendarmes who are manacling you, while also inquiring how long they have been discharged from the army, and in what wars they may have served. And in prison you remain until your case comes on, when the justice orders you to be removed from Tsarev-Kokshaika to such and such another prison, and a second justice orders you to be transferred thence to Vesiegonsk or somewhere else, and you go flitting from gaol to gaol, and saying each time, as you eye your new habitation, ‘The last place was a good deal cleaner than this one is, and one could play babki³¹ there, and stretch one’s legs, and see a little society.’”

²⁹ The names Kariakin and Volokita might, perhaps, be translated as “Gallant” and “Loafer.”

³⁰ Tradesman or citizen.

³¹ The game of knucklebones.

      “‘Abakum Thirov,’” Chichikov went on after a pause. “What of YOU, brother? Where, and in what capacity, are YOU disporting yourself? Have you gone to the Volga country, and become bitten with the life of freedom, and joined the fishermen of the river?”

      Here, breaking off, Chichikov relapsed into silent meditation. Of what was he thinking as he sat there? Was he thinking of the fortunes of Abakum Thirov, or was he meditating as meditates every Russian when his thoughts once turn to the joys of an emancipated existence?

      “Ah, well!” he sighed, looking at his watch. “It has now gone twelve o’clock. Why have I so forgotten myself? There is still much to be done, yet I go shutting myself up and letting my thoughts wander! What a fool I am!”

      So saying, he exchanged his Scottish costume (of a shirt and nothing else) for attire of a more European nature; after which he pulled tight the waistcoat over his ample stomach, sprinkled himself with eau-de-Cologne, tucked his papers under his arm, took his fur cap, and set out for the municipal offices, for the purpose of completing the transfer of souls. The fact that he hurried along was not due to a fear of being late (seeing that the President of the Local Council was an intimate acquaintance of his, as well as a functionary who could shorten or prolong an interview at will, even as Homer’s Zeus was able to shorten or to prolong a night or a day, whenever it became necessary to put an end to the fighting of his favourite heroes, or to enable them to join battle), but rather to a feeling that he would like to have the affair concluded as quickly as possible, seeing that, throughout, it had been an anxious and difficult business. Also, he could not get rid of the idea that his souls were unsubstantial things, and that therefore, under the circumstances, his shoulders had better be relieved of their load with the least possible delay. Pulling on his cinnamon-coloured, bear-lined overcoat as he went, he had just stepped thoughtfully into the street when he collided with a gentleman dressed in a similar coat and an ear-lappeted fur cap. Upon that the gentleman uttered an exclamation. Behold, it was Manilov! At once the friends became folded in a strenuous embrace, and remained so locked for fully five minutes. Indeed, the kisses exchanged were so vigorous that both suffered from toothache for the greater portion of the day. Also, Manilov’s delight was such that only his nose and lips remained visible — the eyes completely disappeared. Afterwards he spent about a quarter of an hour in holding Chichikov’s hand and chafing it vigorously. Lastly, he, in the most pleasant and exquisite terms possible, intimated to his friend that he had just been on his way to embrace Paul Ivanovitch; and upon this followed a compliment of the kind which would more fittingly have been addressed to a lady who was being asked to accord a partner the favour of a dance. Chichikov had opened his mouth to reply — though even HE felt at a loss how to acknowledge what had just been said — when Manilov cut him short by producing from under his coat a roll of paper tied with red riband.

      “What have you there?” asked Chichikov.

      “The list of my souls.”

      “Ah!” And as Chichikov unrolled the document and ran his eye over it he could not but marvel at the elegant neatness with which it had been inscribed.

      “It is a beautiful piece of writing,” he said. “In fact, there will be no need to make a copy of it. Also, it has a border around its edge! Who worked that exquisite border?”

      “Do not ask me,” said Manilov.

      “Did YOU do it?”

      “No; my wife.”

      “Dear, dear!” Chichikov cried. “To think that I should have put her to so much trouble!”

      “NOTHING could be too much trouble where Paul Ivanovitch is concerned.

      Chichikov bowed his acknowledgements. Next, on learning that he was on his way to the municipal offices for the purpose of completing the transfer, Manilov expressed his readiness to accompany him; wherefore the pair linked arm in arm and proceeded together. Whenever they encountered a slight rise in the ground — even the smallest unevenness or difference of level — Manilov supported Chichikov with such energy as almost to lift him off his feet, while accompanying the service with a smiling implication that not if HE could help it should Paul Ivanovitch slip or fall. Nevertheless this conduct appeared to embarrass Chichikov, either because he could not find any fitting words of gratitude or because he considered the proceeding tiresome; and it was with a sense of relief that he debouched upon the square where the municipal offices — a large, three-storied building of a chalky whiteness which probably symbolised