Dead Souls - Nikolai Gogol (most life changing books .txt) 📗

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 the purity of the souls engaged within⁠—were situated. No other building in the square could vie with them in size, seeing that the remaining edifices consisted only of a sentry-box, a shelter for two or three cabmen, and a long hoarding⁠—the latter adorned with the usual bills, posters, and scrawls in chalk and charcoal. At intervals, from the windows of the second and third stories of the municipal offices, the incorruptible heads of certain of the attendant priests of Themis would peer quickly forth, and as quickly disappear again⁠—probably for the reason that a superior official had just entered the room. Meanwhile the two friends ascended the staircase⁠—nay, almost flew up it, since, longing to get rid of Manilov’s ever-supporting arm, Chichikov hastened his steps, and Manilov kept darting forward to anticipate any possible failure on the part of his companion’s legs. Consequently the pair were breathless when they reached the first corridor. In passing it may be remarked that neither corridors nor rooms evinced any of that cleanliness and purity which marked the exterior of the building, for such attributes were not troubled about within, and anything that was dirty remained so, and donned no meritricious, purely external, disguise. It was as though Themis received her visitors in negligee and a dressing-gown. The author would also give a description of the various offices through which our hero passed, were it not that he (the author) stands in awe of such legal haunts.

Approaching the first desk which he happened to encounter, Chichikov inquired of the two young officials who were seated at it whether they would kindly tell him where business relating to serf-indenture was transacted.

“Of what nature, precisely, is your business?” countered one of the youthful officials as he turned himself round.

“I desire to make an application.”

“In connection with a purchase?”

“Yes. But, as I say, I should like first to know where I can find the desk devoted to such business. Is it here or elsewhere?”

“You must state what it is you have bought, and for how much. Then we shall be happy to give you the information.”

Chichikov perceived that the officials’ motive was merely one of curiosity, as often happens when young tchinovnik’s desire to cut a more important and imposing figure than is rightfully theirs.

“Look here, young sirs,” he said. “I know for a fact that all serf business, no matter to what value, is transacted at one desk alone. Consequently I again request you to direct me to that desk. Of course, if you do not know your business I can easily ask someone else.”

To this the tchinovniks made no reply beyond pointing towards a corner of the room where an elderly man appeared to be engaged in sorting some papers. Accordingly Chichikov and Manilov threaded their way in his direction through the desks; whereupon the elderly man became violently busy.

“Would you mind telling me,” said Chichikov, bowing, “whether this is the desk for serf affairs?”

The elderly man raised his eyes, and said stiffly:

“This is not the desk for serf affairs.”

“Where is it, then?”

“In the Serf Department.”

“And where might the Serf Department be?”

“In charge of Ivan Antonovitch.”

“And where is Ivan Antonovitch?”

The elderly man pointed to another corner of the room; whither Chichikov and Manilov next directed their steps. As they advanced, Ivan Antonovitch cast an eye backwards