‘I should be glad to know,’ he said, ‘whether by now you can do anything for me in return for my having shed my blood and suffered sickness and wounds on military service.’
‘First of all,’ said the President,
‘I must tell you that nothing can be decided in your case without the authority of the Supreme Government. Without that sanction we cannot move in the matter. Surely you see how things stand until the army shall have returned from the war? All that I can advise you to do is wait for the Minister to return, and, in the meanwhile, to have patience. Rest assured that then you will not be overlooked. And if for the moment you have nothing to live upon, this is the best that I can do for you.’
With that he handed Kopeikin a trifle until his case should have been decided. However, that was not what Kopeikin wanted. He had supposed that he would be given a gratuity of a thousand roubles straight away; whereas, instead of
‘Drink and be merry,’ it was ‘Wait, for the time is not yet.’
Thus, though his head had been full of soup plates and cutlets and English girls, he now descended the steps with his ears and his tail down — looking, in fact, like a poodle over which the cook has poured a bucketful of water.
You see, St. Petersburg life had changed him not a little since first he had got a taste of it, and, now that the devil only knew how he was going to live, it came all the harder to him that he should have no more sweets to look forward to.
Remember that a man in the prime of years has an appetite like a wolf; and as he passed a restaurant he could see a round-faced, holland-shirted, snow-white aproned fellow of a French chef preparing a dish delicious enough to make it turn to and eat itself; while, again, as he passed a fruit shop he could see delicacies looking out of a window for fools to come and buy them at a hundred roubles apiece.
Imagine, therefore, his position! On the one hand, so to speak, were salmon and water-melons, while on the other hand was the bitter fare which passed at a tavern for luncheon. ‘Well,’ he thought to himself, ‘let them do what they like with me at the Commission, but I intend to go and raise the whole place, and to tell every blessed functionary there that I have a mind to do as I choose.’ And in truth this bold impertinence of a man did have the hardihood to return to the Commission.
‘What do you want?’ said the President. ‘Why are you here for the third time?
You have had your orders given you.’ ‘I daresay I have,’ he retorted, ‘but I am not going to be put off with THEM.
I want some cutlets to eat, and a bottle of French wine, and a chance to go and amuse myself at the theatre.’
‘Pardon me,’ said the President.
‘What you really need (if I may venture to mention it) is a little patience. You have been given something for food until the Military Committee shall have met, and then, doubtless, you will receive your proper reward, seeing that it would not be seemly that a man who has served his country should be left destitute. On the other hand, if, in the meanwhile, you desire to indulge in cutlets and theatre-going, please understand that we cannot help you, but you must make your own resources, and try as best you can to help yourself.’
You can imagine that this went in at one of Kopeikin’s ears, and out at the other; that it was like shooting peas at a stone wall. Accordingly he raised a turmoil which sent the staff flying. One by one, he gave the mob of secretaries and clerks a real good hammering. ‘You, and you, and you,’ he said, ‘do not even know your duties. You are law-breakers.’ Yes, he trod every man of them under foot. At length the General himself arrived from another office, and sounded the alarm. What was to be done with a fellow like Kopeikin? The President saw that strong measures were imperative.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Since you decline to rest satisfied with what has been given you, and quietly to await the decision of your case in St. Petersburg, I must find you a lodging.
Here, constable, remove the man to gaol.’
Then a constable who had been called to the door — a constable three ells in height, and armed with a carbine — a man well fitted to guard a bank — placed our friend in a police waggon.
‘Well,’ reflected Kopeikin, ‘at least I shan’t have to pay my fare for THIS ride.
That’s one comfort.’
Again, after he had ridden a little way, he said to himself: ‘they told me at the Commission to go and make my own means of enjoying myself. Very good. I’ll do so.’
However, what became of Kopeikin, and whither he went, is known to no one.
He sank, to use the poet’s expression, into the waters of Lethe, and his doings now lie buried in oblivion.
But allow me, gentlemen, to piece together the further threads of the story.
Not two months later there appeared in the forests of Riazan a band of robbers: and of that band the chieftain was none other than —”
“Allow me,” put in the Head of the Police Department. “You have said that Kopeikin had lost an arm and a leg; whereas Chichikov —”
To say anything more was unnecessary. The Postmaster clapped his hand to his forehead, and publicly called himself a fool, though, later, he tried to excuse his mistake by saying that in England the science of mechanics had reached such a pitch that wooden legs were manufactured which would enable the wearer, on touching a spring, to vanish instantaneously from sight.
Various other theories were then propounded, among them a theory that Chichikov was Napoleon, escaped from St. Helena and travelling about the world in disguise.
And if it should be supposed that no such notion could possibly have been broached, let the reader remember that these events took place not many years after the French had been driven out of Russia, and that various prophets had since declared that Napoleon was Antichrist, and would one day escape from his island prison to exercise universal sway on earth. Nay, some good folk had even declared the letters of Napoleon’s name to constitute the Apocalyptic cipher!
As a last resort, the tchinovniks decided to question Nozdrev, since not only had the latter been the first to mention the dead souls, but also he was supposed to stand on terms of intimacy with Chichikov. Accordingly the Chief of Police dispatched a note by the hand of a commissionaire.
At the time Nozdrev was engaged on some very important business — so much so that he had not left his room for four days, and was receiving his meals through the window, and no visitors at all.
The business referred to consisted of the marking of several dozen selected cards in such a way as to permit of his relying upon them as upon his bosom friend.
Naturally he did not like having his retirement invaded, and at first consigned the commissionaire to the devil; but as soon as he learnt from the note that, since a novice at cards was to be the guest of the Chief of Police that evening, a call at the latter’s house might prove not wholly unprofitable he relented, unlocked the door of his room, threw on the first garments that came to hand, and set forth.
To every question put to him by the tchinovniks he answered firmly and with assurance.
Chichikov, he averred, had indeed purchased dead souls, and to the tune of several thousand roubles. In fact, he (Nozdrev) had himself sold him some, and still saw no reason why he should not have done so. Next, to the question of whether or not he considered Chichikov to be a spy, he replied in the affirmative, and added that, as long ago as his and Chichikov’s joint schooldays, the said Chichikov had been known as “The Informer,” and repeatedly been thrashed by his companions on that account.
Again, to the question of whether or not Chichikov was a forger of currency notes the deponent, as before, responded in the affirmative, and appended thereto an anecdote illustrative of Chichikov’s extraordinary dexterity of hand — namely, an anecdote to that effect that, once upon a time, on learning that two million roubles worth of counterfeit notes were lying in Chichikov’s house, the authorities had placed seals upon the building, and had surrounded it on every side with an armed guard; whereupon Chichikov had, during the night, changed each of these seals for a new one, and also so arranged matters that, when the house was searched, the forged notes were found to be genuine ones!
Again, to the question of whether or not Chichikov had schemed to abduct the Governor’s daughter, and also whether it was true that he, Nozdrev, had undertaken to aid and abet him in the act, the witness replied that, had he not undertaken to do so, the affair would never have come off.
At this point the witness pulled himself up, on realising that he had told a lie which might get him into trouble; but his tongue was not to be denied — the details trembling on its tip were too alluring, and he even went on to cite the name of the village church where the pair had arranged to be married, that of the priest who had performed the ceremony, the amount of the fees paid for the same (seventy-five roubles), and statements (1) that the priest had refused to solemnise the wedding until Chichikov had frightened him by threatening to expose the fact that he (the priest) had married Mikhail, a local corn dealer, to his paramour, and (2) that Chichikov had ordered both a koliaska for the couple’s conveyance and relays of horses from the post-houses on the road.
Nay, the narrative, as detailed by Nozdrev, even reached the point of his mentioning certain of the postillions by name!
Next, the tchinovniks sounded him on the question of Chichikov’s possible identity with Napoleon; but before long they had reason to regret the step, for Nozdrev responded with a rambling rigmarole such as bore no resemblance to anything possibly conceivable. Finally, the majority of the audience left the room, and only the Chief of Police remained to listen (in the hope of gathering something more); but at last even he found himself forced to disclaim the speaker with a gesture which said:
“The devil only knows what the fellow is talking about!” and so voiced the general opinion that it was no use trying to gather figs of thistles.
Meanwhile Chichikov knew nothing of these events; for, having contracted a slight chill, coupled with a sore throat, he had decided to keep his room for three days; during which time he gargled his throat with milk and fig juice, consumed the fruit from which the juice had been extracted, and wore around his neck a poultice of camomile and camphor.
Also, to while away the hours, he made new and more detailed lists of the souls which he had bought, perused a work by the Duchesse de la Valliere36, rummaged in his portmanteau, looked through various articles and papers which he discovered in his dispatch-box, and found every one of these occupations tedious.
Nor could he understand why none of his official friends had come to see him and inquire after his health, seeing that, not long since, there had been standing in front of the inn the drozhkis both of the Postmaster, the Public Prosecutor, and the President of the Council.
He wondered and wondered, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders, fell to pacing the room.
At length he felt better, and his spirits rose at the prospect of once more going out into the fresh air; wherefore, having shaved a plentiful growth of hair from his face, he dressed with such alacrity as almost to cause a split in his trousers, sprinkled himself with eau-de-Cologne, and wrapping himself in warm clothes, and turning up the collar of his coat, sallied forth into the street.
His first destination was intended to be the Governor’s mansion, and, as he walked along, certain thoughts concerning the Governor’s daughter would keep whirling through his head, so that almost he forgot where he was, and took to smiling and cracking jokes to himself. 36 One of the mistresses of Louis XIV. of France. In 1680 she wrote a book called Reflexions sur la Misericorde de Dieu, par une Dame Penitente.
Arrived at the Governor’s entrance, he was about to divest himself of his scarf when a Swiss footman greeted him with the words,
“I am forbidden to admit you.”
“What?” he exclaimed. “You do not know me?