Dead Souls Nikolai Gogol (phonics story books TXT) 📖

proceeded to business by communicating her tidings, but a sudden exclamation from the hostess imparted (temporarily) a new direction to the conversation.

“What a pretty chintz!” she cried, gazing at the other’s gown.

“Yes, it is pretty,” agreed the visitor. “On the other hand, Praskovia Thedorovna thinks that⁠—”

In other words, the ladies proceeded to indulge in a conversation on the subject of dress; and only after this had lasted for a considerable while did the visitor let fall a remark which led her entertainer to inquire:

“And how is the universal charmer?”

“My God!” replied the other. “There has been such a business! In fact, do you know why I am here at all?” And the visitor’s breathing became more hurried, and further words seemed to be hovering between her lips like hawks preparing to stoop upon their prey. Only a person of the unhumanity of a “true friend” would have had the heart to interrupt her; but the hostess was just such a friend, and at once interposed with:

“I wonder how anyone can see anything in the man to praise or to admire. For my own part, I think⁠—and I would say the same thing straight to his face⁠—that he is a perfect rascal.”

“Yes, but do listen to what I have got to tell you.”

“Oh, I know that some people think him handsome,” continued the hostess, unmoved; “but I say that he is nothing of the kind⁠—that, in particular, his nose is perfectly odious.”

“Yes, but let me finish what I was saying.” The guest’s tone was almost piteous in its appeal.

“What is it, then?”

“You cannot imagine my state of mind! You see, this morning I received a visit from Father Cyril’s wife⁠—the Archpriest’s wife⁠—you know her, don’t you? Well, whom do you suppose that fine gentleman visitor of ours has turned out to be?”

“The man who has built the Archpriest a poultry-run?”

“Oh dear no! Had that been all, it would have been nothing. No. Listen to what Father Cyril’s wife had to tell me. She said that, last night, a lady landowner named Madame Korobotchka arrived at the Archpriest’s house⁠—arrived all pale and trembling⁠—and told her, oh, such things! They sound like a piece out of a book. That is to say, at dead of night, just when everyone had retired to rest, there came the most dreadful knocking imaginable, and someone screamed out, ‘Open the gates, or we will break them down!’ Just think! After this, how anyone can say that the man is charming I cannot imagine.”

“Well, what of Madame Korobotchka? Is she a young woman or good looking?”

“Oh dear no! Quite an old woman.”

“Splendid indeed! So he is actually engaged to a person like that? One may heartily commend the taste of our ladies for having fallen in love with him!”

“Nevertheless, it is not as you suppose. Think, now! Armed with weapons from head to foot, he called upon this old woman, and said: ‘Sell me any souls of yours which have lately died.’ Of course, Madame Korobotchka answered, reasonably enough: ‘I cannot sell you those souls, seeing that they have departed this world;’ but he replied: ‘No, no! They are not dead. ’Tis I who tell you that⁠—I who ought to know the truth of the matter. I swear that they are still alive.’ In short, he made such a scene that the whole village came running to the house, and children screamed, and men shouted, and no one could tell what it was all about. The affair seemed to me so horrible, so utterly horrible, that I trembled beyond belief as I listened to the story. ‘My dearest madam,’ said my maid, Mashka, ‘pray look at yourself in the mirror, and see how white you are.’ ‘But I have no time for that,’ I replied, ‘as I must be off to tell my friend, Anna Grigorievna, the news.’ Nor did I lose a moment in ordering the koliaska. Yet when my coachman, Andrusha, asked me for directions I could not get a word out⁠—I just stood staring at him like a fool, until I thought he must think me mad. Oh, Anna Grigorievna, if you but knew how upset I am!”

“What a strange affair!” commented the hostess. “What on earth can the man have meant by ‘dead souls’? I confess that the words pass my understanding. Curiously enough, this is the second time I have heard speak of those souls. True, my husband avers that Nozdrev was lying; yet in his lies there seems to have been a grain of truth.”

“Well, just think of my state when I heard all this! ‘And now,’ apparently said Korobotchka to the Archpriest’s wife, ‘I am altogether at a loss what to do, for, throwing me fifteen roubles, the man forced me to sign a worthless paper⁠—yes, me, an inexperienced, defenceless widow who knows nothing of business.’ That such things should happen! Try and imagine my feelings!”

“In my opinion, there is in this more than the dead souls which meet the eye.”

“I think so too,” agreed the other. As a matter of fact, her friend’s remark had struck her with complete surprise, as well as filled her with curiosity to know what the word “more” might possibly signify. In fact, she felt driven to inquire: “What do you suppose to be hidden beneath it all?”

“No; tell me what you suppose?”

“What I suppose? I am at a loss to conjecture.”

“Yes, but tell me what is in your mind?”

Upon this the visitor had to confess herself nonplussed; for, though capable of growing hysterical, she was incapable of propounding any rational theory. Consequently she felt the more that she needed tender comfort and advice.

“Then this is what I think about the dead souls,” said the hostess. Instantly the guest pricked up her ears (or, rather, they pricked themselves up) and straightened herself and became, somehow, more modish, and, despite her not inconsiderable weight, posed herself to look like a piece of thistledown floating on the breeze.

“The dead souls,” began the hostess.

“Are what, are