Dead Souls Nikolai Gogol (phonics story books TXT) 📖

his dispatch-box the necessary writing-paper. The room had now been set in order, the sumptuous feather bed removed, and a table set before the sofa. Depositing his dispatch-box upon the table, he heaved a gentle sigh on becoming aware that he was so soaked with perspiration that he might almost have been dipped in a river. Everything, from his shirt to his socks, was dripping. “May she starve to death, the cursed old harridan!” he ejaculated after a moment’s rest. Then he opened his dispatch-box. In passing, I may say that I feel certain that at least some of my readers will be curious to know the contents and the internal arrangements of that receptacle. Why should I not gratify their curiosity? To begin with, the centre of the box contained a soap-dish, with, disposed around it, six or seven compartments for razors. Next came square partitions for a sandbox17 and an inkstand, as well as (scooped out in their midst) a hollow of pens, sealing-wax, and anything else that required more room. Lastly there were all sorts of little divisions, both with and without lids, for articles of a smaller nature, such as visiting cards, memorial cards, theatre tickets, and things which Chichikov had laid by as souvenirs. This portion of the box could be taken out, and below it were both a space for manuscripts and a secret money-box⁠—the latter made to draw out from the side of the receptacle.

Chichikov set to work to clean a pen, and then to write. Presently his hostess entered the room.

“What a beautiful box you have got, my dear sir!” she exclaimed as she took a seat beside him. “Probably you bought it in Moscow?”

“Yes⁠—in Moscow,” replied Chichikov without interrupting his writing.

“I thought so. One can get good things there. Three years ago my sister brought me a few pairs of warm shoes for my sons, and they were such excellent articles! To this day my boys wear them. And what nice stamped paper you have!” (she had peered into the dispatch-box, where, sure enough, there lay a further store of the paper in question). “Would you mind letting me have a sheet of it? I am without any at all, although I shall soon have to be presenting a plea to the land court, and possess not a morsel of paper to write it on.”

Upon this Chichikov explained that the paper was not the sort proper for the purpose⁠—that it was meant for serf-indenturing, and not for the framing of pleas. Nevertheless, to quiet her, he gave her a sheet stamped to the value of a rouble. Next, he handed her the letter to sign, and requested, in return, a list of her peasants. Unfortunately, such a list had never been compiled, let alone any copies of it, and the only way in which she knew the peasants’ names was by heart. However, he told her to dictate them. Some of the names greatly astonished our hero, so, still more, did the surnames. Indeed, frequently, on hearing the latter, he had to pause before writing them down. Especially did he halt before a certain “Peter Saveliev Neuvazhai Korito.” “What a string of titles!” involuntarily he ejaculated. To the Christian name of another serf was appended “Korovi Kirpitch,” and to that of a third “Koleso Ivan.” However, at length the list was compiled, and he caught a deep breath; which latter proceeding caused him to catch also the attractive odour of something fried in fat.

“I beseech you to have a morsel,” murmured his hostess. Chichikov looked up, and saw that the table was spread with mushrooms, pies, and other viands.

“Try this freshly-made pie and an egg,” continued Madame.

Chichikov did so, and having eaten more than half of what she offered him, praised the pie highly. Indeed, it was a toothsome dish, and, after his difficulties and exertions with his hostess, it tasted even better than it might otherwise have done.

“And also a few pancakes?” suggested Madame.

For answer Chichikov folded three together, and, having dipped them in melted butter, consigned the lot to his mouth, and then wiped his mouth with a napkin. Twice more was the process repeated, and then he requested his hostess to order the britchka to be got ready. In dispatching Fetinia with the necessary instructions, she ordered her to return with a second batch of hot pancakes.

“Your pancakes are indeed splendid,” said Chichikov, applying himself to the second consignment of fried dainties when they had arrived.

“Yes, we make them well here,” replied Madame. “Yet how unfortunate it is that the harvest should have proved so poor as to have prevented me from earning anything on my⁠—But why should you be in such a hurry to depart, good sir?” She broke off on seeing Chichikov reach for his cap. “The britchka is not yet ready.”

“Then it is being got so, madam, it is being got so, and I shall need a moment or two to pack my things.”

“As you please, dear sir; but do not forget me in connection with those government contracts.”

“No, I have said that never shall I forget you,” replied Chichikov as he hurried into the hall.

“And would you like to buy some lard?” continued his hostess, pursuing him.

“Lard? Oh certainly. Why not? Only, only⁠—I will do so another time.”

“I shall have some ready at about Christmas.”

“Quite so, madam. Then I will buy anything and everything⁠—the lard included.”

“And perhaps you will be wanting also some feathers? I shall be having some for sale about St. Philip’s Day.”

“Very well, very well, madam.”

“There you see!” she remarked as they stepped out on to the verandah. “The britchka is not yet ready.”

“But it soon will be, it soon will be. Only direct me to the main road.”

“How am I to do that?” said Madame. “ ’Twould puzzle a wise man to do so, for in these parts there are so many turnings. However, I will send a girl to guide you. You