managerial orders: to gather all the newly resettled muzhiks, so as to make an individual roll call of them all personally. Selifan listened silently for quite a while and then walked out of the room, saying to Petrushka: 'Go undress the master!' Petrushka started taking his boots off and together with them almost pulled the master onto the floor. But the boots were finally taken off, the master got undressed properly, and after tossing for some time on his bed, which creaked unmercifully, fell asleep a confirmed Kherson landowner. And Petrushka meanwhile brought out to the corridor the trousers and the cranberry-colored tailcoat with flecks, spread them on a wooden clothes rack, and set about beating them with a whip and brush, filling the whole corridor with dust. As he was about to take them down, he glanced over the gallery railing and saw Selifan coming back from the stable. Their eyes met, and they intuitively understood each other: the master has hit the sack, so why not peek in somewhere or other. That same moment, after taking the tailcoat and trousers to the room, Petrushka came downstairs, and the two went off together, saying nothing to each other about the goal of their trip and gabbing on the way about totally unrelated matters. They did not stroll far: to be precise, they simply crossed to the other side of the street, to the house that stood facing the inn, and entered a low, sooty glass door that led almost to the basement, where various sorts were already sitting at wooden tables: some who shaved their beards, and some who did not, some in sheepskin coats, and some simply in shirts, and a few even in frieze greatcoats. What Petrushka and Selifan did there, God only knows, but they came out an hour later holding each other by the arm, keeping a perfect silence, according each other great attention, with mutual warnings against various corners. Arm in arm, not letting go of each other, they spent a whole quarter of an hour going up the stairs, finally managed it and got up. Petrushka paused for a moment before his low bed, pondering the most suitable way of lying down, and then lay down perfectly athwart it, so that his feet rested on the floor. Selifan lay himself down on the same bed, placing his head on Petrushka's stomach, forgetting that he ought not to be sleeping there at all, but perhaps somewhere in the servants' quarters, if not in the stable with the horses. They both fell asleep that same moment and set up a snoring of unheard-of density, to which the master responded from the other room with a thin nasal whistle. Soon after them everything quieted down, and the inn was enveloped in deep sleep; only in one little window was there still light, where lived some lieutenant, come from Ryazan, a great lover of boots by the look of it, because he had already ordered four pairs made and was ceaselessly trying on a fifth. Several times he had gone over to his bed with the intention of flinging them off and lying down, but he simply could not: the boots were indeed well made, and for a long time still he kept raising his foot and examining the smart and admirable turn of the heel.
Chapter Eight
Chichikov's purchases became a subject of conversation. Gossip went around town, opinions, discussions of whether it was profitable to buy peasants for resettlement. In the debate, many distinguished themselves by their perfect knowledge of the subject. 'Of course,' said some, 'it's so, there's no arguing against it: the land in the southern provinces is good and fertile; but what will Chichikov's peasants do without water? There's no river at all.' 'That would still be nothing, that there's no water, that would be nothing, Stepan Dmitrievich, but resettlement is an unreliable thing. We all know the muzhik: on new land, and he has to start farming it, and he's got nothing, neither cottage nor yard—he'll run away sure as two times two, walk his chalks and leave no trace behind.' 'No, Alexei Ivanovich, excuse me, excuse me, I don't agree with what you're saying, that Chichikov's muzhiks will run away. The Russian man is apt for anything and can get used to any climate. Send him all the way to Kamchatka, give him just a pair of warm mittens, and he'll clap his hands, pick up his axe, and off he goes building himself a new cottage.' 'But, Ivan Grigorievich, you've lost sight of an important thing: you haven't asked yet what sort of muzhiks Chichikov's are. You've forgotten that a landowner will never sell a good man; I'm ready to bet my head that Chichikov's muzhiks are thieves and drunkards to the last degree, idle loafers and of riotous behavior.' 'Yes, yes, I agree with that, it's true, no one's going to sell good people, and Chichikov's muzhiks are drunkards, but you must take into consideration that it is here that we find the moral, here the moral lies: they are scoundrels now, but resettled on new land they may suddenly become excellent subjects. There have been not a few examples of it, simply in the world, and from history as well.' 'Never, never,' the superintendent of the government factories said, 'believe me, that can never be. For Chichikov's peasants will now have two powerful enemies. The first enemy is the proximity of the provinces of Little Russia, where, as everyone knows, drink is sold freely. I assure you: in two weeks they'll be liquored up and thoroughly pie-eyed. The other enemy is the habit of the vagabond life itself, acquired of necessity during their relocation. They would have to be eternally before Chichikov's eyes, and he would have to keep them on a short tether, come down hard on them for every trifle, and, relying on no one save himself in person, give them a clout or a cuff when it's called for.' 'Why should Chichikov bother cuffing them himself? He can find a steward.' 'Oh, yes, go find a steward: they're all crooks.' 'They're crooks because the masters don't concern themselves with things.' 'That's true,' many picked up. 'If the master himself knew at least something about management, and was discerning of people, he would always have a good steward.' But the superintendent said one could not find a good steward for less than five thousand. But the magistrate said it was possible to find one for as little as three thousand. But the superintendent said: 'Where are you going to find him, unless it's up your own nose?' But the magistrate said: 'No, not up my nose, but right in our district— namely: Pyotr Petrovich Samoilov: there's the kind of steward needed for Chichikov's muzhiks!' Many entered earnestly into Chichikov's predicament, and the difficulty of relocating such an enormous number of peasants awed them exceedingly; there was great fear that a riot might even break out among such restless folk as Chichikov's peasants. To this the police chief observed that there was no need to fear a riot, that the power of the district captain of police was there to avert it, that the captain of police had no need to go himself, but in his place could merely send his peaked cap, and this peaked cap alone would drive the peasants all the way to their place of settlement. Many offered opinions as to how to eradicate the riotous spirit that possessed Chichikov's peasants. These opinions were of various sorts: there were some that smacked excessively of military cruelty and severity, almost to superfluousness; there were also such, however, as breathed of mildness. The postmaster observed that Chichikov was faced with a sacred duty, that he could become something like a father among his peasants, as he put it, even introducing beneficent enlightenment, and he took the occasion to refer with much praise to the Lancastrian school of mutual education.[34]
Thus went the talk and discussion in town, and many, moved by sympathy, even conveyed some of this advice to Chichikov personally, even offered a convoy to escort the peasants to their place of settlement. Chichikov thanked them for the advice, saying that in the event he would not fail to make use of it, but he decidedly rejected the convoy, saying it was totally unnecessary, that the peasants he had bought were of superbly placid character, felt benevolently disposed towards resettlement themselves, and that a riot among them was in any event impossible.
All this gossip and discussion produced, however, as favorable a result as Chichikov could possibly have looked for. Namely, the rumor spread that he was no more nor less than a millionaire. The inhabitants of the town, as we have already seen in the first chapter, had taken a hearty liking to Chichikov even without that, but now, after such rumors, their liking became heartier still. Truth to tell, however, they were all kindly folk, got along well among themselves, treated each other with perfect friendliness, and their conversations bore the stamp of some especial simple-heartedness and familiarity: 'My gentle friend Ilya Ilych,' 'Listen, brother Antipator Zakharievich!' 'You're lying like a rug, Ivan Grigorievich, dear heart.' To the postmaster, whose name was Ivan Andreevich, they always added: 'Sprechen sie Deych, Ivan Andreych?'[35]—in short, everything was on a quite familial footing. Many were not without cultivation: the head magistrate knew by heart Zhukovsky's
