Dead Souls (World's Classics Series). Nikolai Gogol
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highly. Indeed, it was a toothsome dish, and, after his difficulties and exertions with his hostess, it tasted even better than it might otherwise have done.
“And also a few pancakes?” suggested Madame.
For answer Chichikov folded three together, and, having dipped them in melted butter, consigned the lot to his mouth, and then wiped his mouth with a napkin. Twice more was the process repeated, and then he requested his hostess to order the britchka to be got ready. In dispatching Fetinia with the necessary instructions, she ordered her to return with a second batch of hot pancakes.
“Your pancakes are indeed splendid,” said Chichikov, applying himself to the second consignment of fried dainties when they had arrived.
“Yes, we make them well here,” replied Madame. “Yet how unfortunate it is that the harvest should have proved so poor as to have prevented me from earning anything on my—But why should you be in such a hurry to depart, good sir?” She broke off on seeing Chichikov reach for his cap. “The britchka is not yet ready.”
“Then it is being got so, madam, it is being got so, and I shall need a moment or two to pack my things.”
“As you please, dear sir; but do not forget me in connection with those Government contracts.”
“No, I have said that NEVER shall I forget you,” replied Chichikov as he hurried into the hall.
“And would you like to buy some lard?” continued his hostess, pursuing him.
“Lard? Oh certainly. Why not? Only, only—I will do so ANOTHER time.”
“I shall have some ready at about Christmas.”
“Quite so, madam. THEN I will buy anything and everything—the lard included.”
“And perhaps you will be wanting also some feathers? I shall be having some for sale about St. Philip’s Day.”
“Very well, very well, madam.”
“There you see!” she remarked as they stepped out on to the verandah. “The britchka is NOT yet ready.”
“But it soon will be, it soon will be. Only direct me to the main road.”
“How am I to do that?” said Madame. “‘Twould puzzle a wise man to do so, for in these parts there are so many turnings. However, I will send a girl to guide you. You could find room for her on the box-seat, could you not?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then I will send her. She knows the way thoroughly. Only do not carry her off for good. Already some traders have deprived me of one of my girls.”
Chichikov reassured his hostess on the point, and Madame plucked up courage enough to scan, first of all, the housekeeper, who happened to be issuing from the storehouse with a bowl of honey, and, next, a young peasant who happened to be standing at the gates; and, while thus engaged, she became wholly absorbed in her domestic pursuits. But why pay her so much attention? The Widow Korobotchka, Madame Manilov, domestic life, non-domestic life—away with them all! How strangely are things compounded! In a trice may joy turn to sorrow, should one halt long enough over it: in a trice only God can say what ideas may strike one. You may fall even to thinking: “After all, did Madame Korobotchka stand so very low in the scale of human perfection? Was there really such a very great gulf between her and Madame Manilov—between her and the Madame Manilov whom we have seen entrenched behind the walls of a genteel mansion in which there were a fine staircase of wrought metal and a number of rich carpets; the Madame Manilov who spent most of her time in yawning behind half-read books, and in hoping for a visit from some socially distinguished person in order that she might display her wit and carefully rehearsed thoughts—thoughts which had been de rigeur in town for a week past, yet which referred, not to what was going on in her household or on her estate—both of which properties were at odds and ends, owing to her ignorance of the art of managing them—but to the coming political revolution in France and the direction in which fashionable Catholicism was supposed to be moving? But away with such things! Why need we speak of them? Yet how comes it that suddenly into the midst of our careless, frivolous, unthinking moments there may enter another, and a very different, tendency?—that the smile may not have left a human face before its owner will have radically changed his or her nature (though not his or her environment) with the result that the face will suddenly become lit with a radiance never before seen there?...
“Here is the britchka, here is the britchka!” exclaimed Chichikov on perceiving that vehicle slowly advancing. “Ah, you blockhead!” he went on to Selifan. “Why have you been loitering about? I suppose last night’s fumes have not yet left your brain?”
To this Selifan returned no reply.
“Good-bye, madam,” added the speaker. “But where is the girl whom you promised me?”
“Here, Pelagea!” called the hostess to a wench of about eleven who was dressed in home-dyed garments and could boast of a pair of bare feet which, from a distance, might almost have been mistaken for boots, so encrusted were they with fresh mire. “Here, Pelagea! Come and show this gentleman the way.”
Selifan helped the girl to ascend to the box-seat. Placing one foot upon the step by which the gentry mounted, she covered the said step with mud, and then, ascending higher, attained the desired position beside the coachman. Chichikov followed in her wake (causing the britchka to heel over with his weight as he did so), and then settled himself back into his place with an “All right! Good-bye, madam!” as the horses moved away at a trot.
Selifan looked gloomy as he drove, but also very attentive to his business. This was invariably his custom when he had committed the fault of getting drunk. Also, the horses looked unusually well-groomed. In particular, the collar on one of them had been neatly mended, although hitherto its state of dilapidation had been such as perennially to allow the stuffing to protrude through the leather. The silence preserved was well-nigh complete. Merely flourishing his whip, Selifan spoke to the team no word of instruction, although the skewbald was as ready as usual to listen to conversation of a didactic nature, seeing that at such times the reins hung loosely in the hands of the loquacious driver, and the whip wandered merely as a matter of form over the backs of the troika. This time, however, there could be heard issuing from Selifan’s sullen lips only the uniformly unpleasant exclamation, “Now then, you brutes! Get on with you, get on with you!” The bay and the Assessor too felt put out at not hearing themselves called “my pets” or “good lads”; while, in addition, the skewbald came in for some nasty cuts across his sleek and ample quarters. “What has put master out like this?” thought the animal as it shook its head. “Heaven knows where he does not keep beating me—across the back, and even where I am tenderer still. Yes, he keeps catching the whip in my ears, and lashing me under the belly.”
“To the right, eh?” snapped Selifan to the girl beside him as he pointed to a rain-soaked road which trended away through fresh green fields.
“No, no,” she replied. “I will show you the road when the time comes.”
“Which way, then?” he asked again when they had proceeded a little further.
“This way.” And she pointed to the road just mentioned.
“Get along with you!” retorted the coachman. “That DOES go to the right. You don’t know your right hand from your left.”
The weather was fine, but the ground so excessively sodden that the wheels of the britchka collected mire until they had become caked as with a layer of felt, a circumstance which greatly increased the weight of the vehicle, and prevented it from clearing the neighbouring parishes before the afternoon was arrived. Also, without the girl’s help the finding of the way would have been impossible, since roads wiggled away in every direction, like crabs released from a net, and, but for the assistance mentioned, Selifan would have found himself left to his own devices. Presently she pointed to a building ahead, with the words, “THERE is the main road.”
“And what is the building?” asked Selifan.
“A