fact that I've been thrown into jail innocently, that I will perish here like a dog, and that my property, my papers, my chest. . . save me!'
He embraced the old man's legs and wetted them with his tears.
'Ah, Pavel Ivanovich, Pavel Ivanovich!' old Murazov kept saying, shaking his head. 'How blinded you are by this property! Because of it, you don't even hear your own poor soul!'
'I'll think about my soul, too, only save me!'
'Pavel Ivanovich!' old Murazov said and stopped. 'To save you is not in my power—you can see that yourself. But I'll try to do all I can to alleviate your lot and set you free. I don't know whether I'll succeed, but I'll try. And if perchance I do succeed, Pavel Ivanovich, then I'll ask a reward from you for my labors: drop all these attempts at these acquisitions. I tell you in all honesty that even if I lost all my property—and I have much more than you do—I wouldn't weep. By God, the point of the thing is not in this property, which can be confiscated, but in that which no one can steal and carry off! You have already lived enough in the world. You yourself call your life a ship amidst the waves. You have enough already to live on for the rest of your days. Settle yourself in some quiet corner, near a church and simple, good people; or, if you're burning with desire to leave posterity behind you, marry a good girl, not rich, accustomed to moderation and simple household life. Forget this noisy world and all its seductive fancies; let it forget you, too. There is no peace in it. You see: everything in it is either an enemy, a tempter, or a traitor.'
Chichikov fell to thinking. Something strange, some hitherto unknown feelings, inexplicable to himself, came to him: as if something wanted to awaken in him, something suppressed since childhood by stern, dead precepts, by the inimicalness of a dull childhood, the desolateness of his family home, by familyless solitude, abjectness, and a poverty of first impressions, by the stern glance of fate, which looked dully at him through some clouded window buried under a wintry blizzard.
'Only save me, Afanasy Vassilyevich,' he cried out. 'I'll lead a different life, I'll follow your advice! Here's my word on it!'
'Watch out now, Pavel Ivanovich, don't go back on your word,' Murazov said, holding his hand.
'I might go back on it, if it weren't for such a terrible lesson,' poor Chichikov said with a sigh, and added: 'But the lesson is a harsh one; a harsh, harsh lesson, Afanasy Vassilyevich!'
'It's good that it's harsh. Thank God for that, pray to Him. I'll go and do what I can for you.'
With these words the old man left.
Chichikov no longer wept or tore his tailcoat and his hair: he calmed down.
'No, enough!' he said finally, 'a different, different life. It's really time to become a decent man. Oh, if only I could somehow extricate myself and still be left with at least a little capital, I'd settle far away from . . . And the deeds? ...” He thought: 'What, then? why abandon this business, acquired with such labor? ... I won't buy any more, but I must mortgage those. The acquisition cost me labor! I'll mortgage them, I will, in order to buy an estate. I'll become a landowner, because here one can do much good.' And in his mind there awakened those feelings which had come over him when he was at Kostanzhoglo's, listening to his host's nice, intelligent conversation, in the warm evening light, about how fruitful and useful estate management is. The country suddenly appeared so beautiful to him, as if he were able to feel all the charms of country life.
'We're all stupid, chasing after vanity!' he said finally. 'Really, it comes from idleness! Everything's near, everything's close at hand, yet we run to some far-off kingdom. Is it not life, if one is occupied, be it even in a remote corner? The pleasure indeed consists in labor. And nothing's sweeter than the fruit of one's own labors . . . No, I'll occupy myself with labor, I'll settle in the country and occupy myself honestly, so as to have a good influence on others as well. What, am I really such a good-for-nothing? I have abilities for management; I possess the qualities of thrift, efficiency, reasonableness, and even constancy. Once I make up my mind, I feel I have them. Only now do I feel truly and clearly that there exists a certain duty that man must fulfill on earth, without tearing himself away from the place and corner he has been put in.'
And a life of labor, far removed from the noise of the cities and those seductions invented in his idleness by the man who has forgotten labor, began to picture itself to him so vividly that he almost forgot the whole unpleasantness of his situation, and was, perhaps, even ready to give thanks to Providence for this harsh lesson, if only he were let go and at least part of his money were returned to him. But. . . the single-leafed door of his unclean closet opened and in walked an official person—Samosvistov, an epicure, a daredevil, an excellent friend, a carouser, and a cunning beast, as his own friends called him. In time of war this man might have done wonders: if he had been sent to sneak through some impassable, dangerous places, to steal a cannon right out from under the enemy's nose—it would have been just the thing for him. But, for lack of a military career in which he might have been an honest man, he did dirty and mucked things up. Inconceivably, he was good with his friends, never sold anyone, and, once he gave his word, he kept it; but his own superiors he regarded as something like an enemy battery which one had to make one's way through, taking advantage of every weak spot, breach, or negligence . . .
'We know all about your situation, we've heard everything!' he said, once he saw that the door was tightly shut behind him. 'Never mind, never mind! Don't lose heart: it will all be fixed up. Everything will work out for you and—your humble servants! Thirty thousand for us all—and nothing more.'
'Really?' Chichikov cried out. 'And I'll be completely vindicated?'
'Roundly! and get a nice reward for your losses.'
'And for your efforts?...'
'Thirty thousand. It goes to everyone—our boys, and the Governor-general's, and the secretary.'
'But, excuse me, how can I? All my things . . . my chest. . . it's all sealed now, under surveillance ...”
'You'll have it all within the hour. It's a deal, then?'
Chichikov gave him his hand. His heart was pounding, and he had no trust that it was possible . . .
'Good-bye for now! Our mutual friend asked me to tell you that the main thing is—calm and presence of mind.'
'Hm!' thought Chichikov, 'I understand: the lawyer!'
Samosvistov disappeared. Chichikov, left alone, still did not trust his words, when, less than an hour after this conversation, the chest was brought: papers, money, and all in the best order. Samosvistov had come as an administrator: reprimanded the guards for lack of vigilance, ordered more soldiers set to strengthen the watch, not only took the chest, but even selected all the papers that could in any way compromise Chichikov; tied it all together, sealed it, and told a soldier to take it immediately to Chichikov himself in the guise of things necessary for the night and for sleeping, so that along with the papers, Chichikov also even received all the warm things needed to cover his mortal body. This speedy delivery delighted him unutterably. He acquired great hope, and again was already imagining all sorts of attractions: theater in the evening, a dancer he was dangling after. The country and its quiet paled; town and noise again grew more vivid, clear . . . Oh, life!
And meanwhile a case of boundless proportions was developing in the courts and chambers. The pens of scriveners worked away and, taking sniffs of tobacco, the quibbling heads labored, admiring, like artists, each scrawly line. The lawyer, like a hidden magician, invisibly controlled the whole mechanism; he entangled decidedly everyone, before anyone had time to look around. The tangle increased. Samosvistov surpassed himself in his unheard-of courage and boldness. Having found out where the seized woman was being kept, he went straight there and entered with the air of such a dashing fellow and superior that the sentinel saluted him and stood at attention.
'Have you been here long?'
'Since morning, sir!'
'How soon will you be relieved?'
'Three hours, sir!'
'I shall need you. I'll tell the officer to detail someone else instead.'
'Yes, sir!'
And, going home, without delaying a moment, to avoid mixing with anyone and to have all ends buried, he dressed himself up as a gendarme, tricked out in mustache and side-whiskers— the devil himself could not have recognized him. Going to the house where Chichikov was, he seized the first wench he found there, handed her over to two daredevil officials, also in the know, and himself went straight to the sentinels, with mustache and rifle all in order:
'Go, the officer sent me to replace you.' He exchanged places with the sentinel and stood there with his
