Dead Souls

It looked, however, as if the rain was not going to let up soon. The dust lying in the road was quickly churned to mud, and it became harder every moment for the horses to pull the britzka. Chichikov was already begi

"Selifan!" he said finally, poking himself out of the britzka.

"What, master?" answered Selifan.

"Look around, don't you see the village?"

"No, master, it's nowhere to be seen!" After which Selifan, brandishing his whip, struck up, not really a song, but something so long that there was even no end to it. Everything went into it: every inciting and inviting cry to which horses all over Russia, from one end to the other, are treated; adjectives of every sort without further discrimination, whatever came first to his tongue. In this fashion things reached a point where he finally started calling them secretaries.

Meanwhile Chichikov began to notice that the britzka was rocking from side to side and dealing him some very strong jolts; this gave him the feeling that they had turned off the road and were probably dragging themselves over a harrowed field. Selifan seemed to have realized it himself, but he did not say a word.

"How now, you crook, what sort of road are you driving on?" said Chichikov.

"No help for it, master, in a time like this; can't see the whip, it's that dark!" Having said this, he tilted the britzka so much that Chichikov was forced to hold on with both hands. Only here did he notice that Selifan was a bit in his cups.

"Hold it, hold it, you'll tip us over!" he shouted to him.

"No, master, it can't be that I'll tip us over," Selifan said. "It's no good tipping over, I know myself: I'll never tip us over." Then he began to turn the britzka slightly, turned, turned, and finally turned it over completely on its side. Chichikov plopped hand and foot into the mud. Selifan did stop the horses, however, though they would have stopped of themselves, because they were very worn-out. He was completely amazed at such an unforeseen occurrence. Climbing down from the box, he stood in front of the britzka, arms akimbo, all the while his master was floundering in the mud, trying to crawl out of it, and said after some reflection: "Look at that, it tipped over!"

"You're drunk as a cobbler!" said Chichikov.

"No, master, it can't be that I'm drunk! I know it's not a good thing to be drunk. I talked with a friend, because one can have a talk with a good man, there's nothing bad in that; and we had a bite to eat together. There's no offense in a bite to eat; one can have a bite to eat with a good man."

"And what did I tell you when you got drunk the last time? eh? have you forgotten?"

"No, your honor, it can't be that I've forgotten. I know my business. I know it's no good to be drunk. I had a talk with a good man, because ...”

"I'll give you real whipping, then you'll know how to talk with a good man!"

"As ever your grace pleases," replied the all-agreeable Selifan, "if it's a whipping, it's a whipping; I don't mind about that at all. Why not a whipping, if it's deserved, that's the master's will. Whipping's needed, because a muzhik goes a-frolicking, there's need for order. If it's deserved, give him a whipping: why not give him a whipping?"

The master was completely at a loss how to respond to such reasoning. But at that time it seemed as if fate itself decided to have mercy on him. From far off came the barking of dogs. Overjoyed, Chichikov gave the order to whip up the horses. A Russian driver has good instinct in place of eyes; as a result, he sometimes goes pumping along at full speed, eyes shut, and always gets somewhere or other. Selifan, without seeing a blessed thing, aimed his horses so directly at the estate that he stopped only when the britzka's shafts struck the fence and there was decidedly no way to go further. Chichikov only noticed through the thick sheet of pouring rain something resembling a roof. He sent Selifan in search of the gates, which no doubt would have taken a long time, were it not that in Russia, instead of gatekeepers, there are brave dogs, who a

"Who's knocking? What's this carrying on?"

"Travelers, dearie, let us stay the night," said Chichikov.

"There's a quick-stepper for you!" said the old woman. "A fine time you picked to come! This isn't an i

"No help for it, dearie: see, we've lost our way. We can't spend the night on the steppe at a time like this."

"Yes, it's a dark time, it's not a good time," added Selifan.

"Quiet, fool," said Chichikov.

"But who are you?" said the old woman.

"A nobleman, dearie."

The word "nobleman" made the old woman reflect a little, it seemed.

"Wait, I'll tell my mistress," she said, and about two minutes later already came back with a lantern in her hand.

The gates were opened. Light flickered in yet another window. The britzka, having driven into the yard, stopped in front of a smallish house, which it was difficult to make out in the darkness. Only half of it was lit by the light coming from the windows; also visible was a puddle in front of the house, which was struck directly by the same light. Rain beat noisily on the wooden roof and poured in burbling streams into the rain barrel. Meanwhile the dogs went off into all possible voices: one, his head thrown back, howled so protractedly and with such diligence as though he were being paid God knows how much for it; another rapped away hurriedly, like a beadle; in their midst, like a postman's bell, rang an irrepressible treble, probably a young puppy's, and all this was crowned by a bass, an old fellow, perhaps, endowed with a stalwart dog's nature, because he was wheezing the way a basso profundo wheezes when the concert is at its peak: the tenors rise on tiptoe in their intense desire to produce a high note, and all that is there strains upwards, heads flung back, while he alone, his unshaven chin thrust into his tie, having hunkered down and lowered himself almost to the ground, from there lets out his note, making the windowpanes shake and rattle. From the dogs' barking alone, composed of such musicians, it might have been supposed that the village was a sizable one; but our drenched and chilled hero had thoughts of nothing but bed. The moment the britzka came to a full stop, he jumped off onto the porch, staggered, and almost fell. Again some woman came out to the porch, a bit younger than the first one, but closely resembling her. She brought him inside. Chichikov took a couple of cursory glances: the room was hung with old striped wallpaper; pictures of some sort of birds; little old-fashioned mirrors between the windows, with dark frames shaped like curled leaves; behind each mirror was stuck either a letter, or an old pack of cards, or a stocking; a wall clock with flowers painted on its face ... it was beyond him to notice anything more. His eyes felt sticky, as if someone had smeared them with honey. A minute later the mistress came in, an elderly woman in some sort of sleeping bo