Chichikov observed that that did indeed happen, and that there were many things in nature which were inexplicable even for a vast mind.
'But first allow me one request. . . ,' he uttered in a voice that rang with some strange or almost strange expression, and after that, for no apparent reason, he looked behind him. Manilov, too, for no apparent reason, looked behind him. 'How long ago were you so good as to file your census report?'
'Oh, long ago now; or, rather, I don't remember.'
'And since that time how many of your peasants have died?'
'I have no way of knowing; that's something I suppose you must ask the steward. Hey, boy! call the steward, he should be here today.'
The steward appeared. He was a man approaching forty, who shaved his beard, wore a frock coat, and apparently led a very comfortable life, because his face had about it the look of a certain puffy plumpness, and his little eyes and the yellowish tint of his skin showed that he knew all too well what goose down and feather beds were. One could see at once that he had made his way in life as all estate stewards do: had first been simply a literate boy about the house, then married some housekeeper Agashka, the mistress's favorite, became a housekeeper himself, and then steward. And having become steward, he behaved, naturally, like all stewards: hobnobbed with villagers of the wealthier sort; put additional taxes on the poorer ones; woke up past eight in the morning, waited for the samovar, and drank his tea.
'Listen, my good man! how many of our peasants have died since we filed the census report?'
'Who knows? Quite a lot have died since then,' said the steward, and with that he hiccuped, covering his mouth slightly with his hand, as with a little screen.
'Yes, I confess, I thought so myself,' Manilov picked up, 'precisely, quite a lot have died!' Here he turned to Chichikov and added again: 'Exactly, quite a lot.'
'How many, for instance?' asked Chichikov.
'Yes, how many?' picked up Manilov.
'Who knows how many? It's not known what number died, nobody counted them.'
'Yes, precisely,' said Manilov, turning to Chichikov, 'I thought so, too, a high mortality; it's quite unknown how many died.'
'Count them all up, please,' said Chichikov, 'and make a detailed list of them all by name.'
'Yes, all by name,' said Manilov.
The steward said 'Yes, sir!' and left.
'And for what reasons do you need this?' Manilov asked after the steward had gone.
This question, it seemed, embarrassed the guest, on whose face there appeared a sort of strained expression, which even made him blush—the strain of expressing something not quite amenable to words. And, indeed, Manilov finally heard such strange and extraordinary things as had never yet been heard by human ears.
'You ask, for what reasons? These are the reasons: I would like to buy peasants . . . ,' Chichikov said, faltered, and did not finish his speech.
'But allow me to ask you,' said Manilov, 'how do you wish to buy them: with land, or simply to have them resettled—that is, without land?'
'No, it's not quite peasants,' said Chichikov, 'I would like to have dead ...'
'How's that, sir? Excuse me . . . I'm somewhat hard of hearing, I thought I heard a most strange word ...'
'I propose to acquire dead ones, who would, however, be counted in the census as living,' said Chichikov.
Manilov straightaway dropped his long-stemmed chibouk on the floor, and as his mouth gaped open, so he remained with gaping mouth for the course of several minutes. The two friends, who had been discussing the agreeableness of the life of friendship, remained motionless, their eyes fixed on each other, like those portraits which in the old days used to be hung facing each other on either side of a mirror. Finally Manilov picked up the chibouk and looked into his face from below, trying to see whether there was a smile on his face, whether he was joking; but there was nothing of the sort to be seen; on the contrary, the face seemed even more staid than usual; then he thought his guest might by chance have gone off his head somehow, and in fear he looked intently at him; but the guest's eyes were completely clear, there was in them none of the wild, anguished fire that flickers in the eyes of a madman, everything was decent and in order. However hard Manilov thought about how to behave and what to do, he could think up nothing other than simply to release the remaining smoke from his mouth in a very thin stream.
'And so, I would like to know whether you might turn over to me, cede, or however you deem best, those not alive in reality, but alive with respect to legal form?'
But Manilov was so abashed and confused that he simply stared at him.
'It seems you're hesitant... ?' observed Chichikov.
'I? . . . no, it's not that,' said Manilov, 'but I cannot grasp . . . excuse me ... I, of course, could not have received such a brilliant education as is perceivable, so to speak, in your every movement; I have no lofty art of expression . . . Here, it may be ... in this explanation just expressed by you . . . something else is concealed ... It may be that you were pleased to express it thus for the beauty of the style?'
'No,' Chichikov picked up, 'no, I mean the subject just as it is, that is, those souls which, indeed, have already died.'
Manilov was utterly at a loss. He felt he had to say something, to offer a question, but what question—devil knew. He finished finally by letting out smoke again, only not through his mouth this time, but through the nostrils of his nose.
'And so, if there are no obstacles, with God's help we can proceed to draw up the deed of purchase,' said Chichikov.
'What, a deed for dead souls?'
'Ah, no!' said Chichikov. 'We will write that they are living, just as it actually stands in the census report. It is my habit never to depart from civil law in anything, though I did suffer for it in the service, but do excuse me: duty is a sacred thing for me, the law—I stand mute before the law.'
These last words pleased Manilov, but all the same he by no means caught the drift of the matter itself, and instead of an answer began sucking so hard on his chibouk that it finally started wheezing like a bassoon. It seemed as if he wanted to pull from it an opinion concerning such an unheard-of circumstance; but the pipe wheezed, and that was all.
'It may be that you have some sort of doubts?'
'Oh! good gracious, not a whit. What I say of it is not because I might have some, that is, critical prejudication about you. But allow me to state, won't this undertaking, or, to better express it, so to speak, this negotiation—won't this negotiation be inconsistent with the civil statutes and the further prospects of Russia?'
Here Manilov, having made a certain movement with his head, looked very meaningly into Chichikov's face, showing in all the features of his own face and in his compressed lips such a profound expression as, it may be, has never yet been seen on a human face, except perhaps of some very clever minister, and then in the moment of a most brain-racking affair.
But Chichikov said simply that such an undertaking, or negotiation, was by no means inconsistent with the civil statutes and the further prospects of Russia, and a moment later added that the treasury would even profit by it, for it would receive the legal fees.
'So you suppose ...”
'I suppose it will be a good thing.'
'Ah, if it's good, that's another matter: I have nothing against it,' said Manilov, and he calmed down completely.
'Now it remains to agree on the price.'
'What price?' Manilov said again and paused. 'Do you really think I will take money for souls which, in a certain sense, have ended their existence? If you have indeed been visited by this, so to speak, fantastic desire, then I, for my part, will turn them over to you disinterestedly and take the fees upon myself.'
It would be a great reproach to the historian of the events set forth here if he failed to say that, after these words uttered by Manilov, the guest was overcome with delight. Staid and sensible though he was, he almost
