Dead Souls

“Chichikov went to see the vice-governor, then he visited the prosecutor, the chief judge, the chief of police, the alcohol monopolist, the chief manager of state factories…unfortunately, it’s hard to remember all the mighty and powerful, but suffice it to say that the new arrival proved himself to be remarkably enterprising in his visits: he even went to pay his respects to the inspector of medical services and the town architect. Afterwards, he spent a long time sitting in his barouche trying to think of anyone else he ought to call on, but there were no other officials in the town.” 

The narrator’s catalogue here emphasizes the centrality of bureaucracy to life in imperial Russia. To know a town is to know its officials, no matter how minor. The list also emphasizes Chichikov’s “enterprising” thoroughness—he takes his own initiative and makes his own plans. Chichikov’s scam depends on a thorough understanding of social networks, the ability to read people, and the knowledge of how to track power and resources.

“Such is the Russian: he has a great passion to be on close terms with somebody who may be just one rank higher than himself, and a nodding acquaintance with a count or a prince matters more to him than any close friendly relationship. The author is even worried for his hero, who is a mere collegiate councillor. Mid-ranking councillors, perhaps, will make his acquaintance, but those who have risen to ranks equivalent to a general’s will, God knows, perhaps only grant him one of those contemptuous glances that are given by a man to anything creeping at his feet—or, still worse, they may even ignore him utterly, thus mortifying the author.” 

Gogol’s narrator frequently comments on the national character. Often, the portrait is not flattering: Here, the narrator jokes that Russians are so obsessed with bureaucratic rank that they structure their social lives around it—so much so that they might even scoff at Chichikov’s own lack of significant social rank.

“Sometimes, as he gazed from the steps at the courtyard and pond, he would talk about what a good idea it would be to dig an underground passage from the house, or to throw a bridge over the pond, with stalls at either end so that merchants could occupy them and sell various household wares to meet the peasants’ needs. As he spoke, his eyes shone with saccharine sentiment, and an expression of great satisfaction came over his face, but none of these fanciful projects ever got further than mere words. There was always some book or other in his study, with a bookmark at page fourteen, which he had been reading for the past two years.” 

The landowner Manilov is a man of grand plans that never get off the ground—a quality that does not yield results on his estate. His projects are “fanciful” and even his thoughts of improvement are “saccharine,” driven by sentimentality (which makes sense given the fact that his name comes from the Russian verb manit, or to tempt or lure). His desire for self-improvement similarly stalls, as he fails to read the books he owns.

“‘What, a purchase deed for dead souls?’ ‘Oh, no!’ said Chichikov. ‘We shall write that they are alive, just as they are in the census tax return. It is not in my habits to deviate one whit from civic law, even though I have had to pay for that in my career, but you must forgive me: an obligation is a sacred matter for me, and as for the law—I stand mute before the law.’ Manilov was pleased by these final words, but he still couldn’t make sense of the deal itself and, for want of an answer, he began sucking his clay pipe so hard that it started to wheeze like a bassoon. He seemed to be trying to extract from it an opinion about this unprecedented business; but the clay pipe only wheezed and said nothing.”

Chichikov’s persuasive powers are no match for the pliant and people-pleasing Manilov. Chichikov presents himself as a man committed to principle and morality; a phrase Manilov focuses on rather than evaluating the dubious legality of selling dead souls. Chichikov knows his audience, and this rhetorical ploy works. Manilov’s befuddlement is accompanied by absurd imagery: His pipe becomes a wind instrument—but of course, its empty insides offer no wisdom to its owner.

“‘You forget I know you: you’re a real crook, let me tell you, as one friend to another. If I were your superior, I’d hang you from the nearest tree.’ Chichikov was deeply offended by this remark. Any expression with the slightest element of coarseness or impropriety about it displeased him. He was never willing to allow anyone to be at all familiar with him, unless that person was of exceedingly high rank. For that reason, he was now feeling deeply insulted.” 

Nozdryov (whose name comes from the word for nostril) can literally smell a rat behind Chichikov’s affable public persona. He doesn’t fall for Chichikov’s ruse; instead, he calls Chichikov is a “crook” whose behavior is worthy of criminal sanction. The narrator highlights the fact that Chichikov is offended more by the insulting word than the implication that his way of life is outside the law—he only tolerates rudeness from those who significantly outrank him.

“Yet again Chichikov looked around the room and everything in it: everything was solid, ungainly in the highest degree and bore an uncanny resemblance to the owner of the house. In the corner of the drawing room stood a pot-bellied walnut bureau with four very absurd-looking legs, just like a bear. The table, the armchair, the chairs, everything had the same heavy disturbing quality—every object, in fact, every chair seemed to say: ‘I’m Sobakevich, too!’ or ‘And I’m very like Sobakevich!’”

Sobakevich’s estate, like those of Korobochka and Manilov, reveals much about its owner. The Sobakevich is solid and reliable, a firm unshakeable man who resembles a bear, one of Russia’s national symbols. Absurdly enough, his furniture also has bearish qualities. The narrator imagines the furniture speaking to Chichikov, in a flight of fancy that is a great example of the ways the novel uses exaggeration for effect.

“Like the countless domed churches and monasteries with their towers and crosses scattered over sacred pious Russia, countless numbers of tribes, generations, nations seethe in all their variety and rush over the face of the earth. And each and every nation which carries its innate promise of strength, which is full of the soul’s creative abilities, its own well-defined peculiarity and other gifts of God, is distinguished by its own word, by which it expresses any object and reflects in that expression a part of its own special nature. Knowledge of the heart and wise insights into life distinguish the Briton; the Frenchman’s ephemeral word flares and disintegrates like a frivolous dandy; the German will ingeniously devise his own clever, but insubstantial word, which only the few can understand; but there is no word which has such verve, such boisterousness, which bursts right from the breast, which boils and quivers as a wittily spoken Russian word.”

Reflecting on national characteristics, the narrator suggests that “sacred and pious” Russia is most distinguished by its Orthodox Christianity and proliferation of churches. However, language is the real key to uncovering national character. Every nation has its own linguistic habits: French is “frivolous,” English is “wise,” and German excels at abstraction. But all of them pale beside Russian, which “boils” in its power to be creatively, obscenely, unprintably profane. Of course, because the text does not reproduce the peasant’s comment, Gogol forces readers to comb through their stock of obscenity—a hilarious bit of metafictional scatological humor.

“A whole lifetime would not suffice to use them, even given two estates the size of his: but this was, to his mind, not nearly enough. Not satisfied by what he had, he would walk every day through the alleys of his village, looking under culverts, under planks across ditches, and dragging home and piling in the heap that Chichikov had seen in the corner of the room everything that he caught sight of: the sole of an old boot, a woman’s rag, an iron nail, a shard of pottery. ‘Look, the fisherman’s out fishing!’ a peasant would exclaim when they saw Plyushkin going in search of booty.” 

Plyushkin’s endless quest for material wealth has yielded tangible, if tragic results. He owns more objects than he can possibly use—discarded items no one could possibly use that now lie in a “heap” in a corner. He walks his estate haunted by the possibility of any waste, even “planks across ditches.” He literally lowers himself to the dirt to seek more acquisitions. His peasants mockingly call him a fisherman, and his goods have not brought him profit or nourishment.

“For today’s judges do not admit that the magnifying glasses which survey suns are equaled by those that show the movements of insects too small to see with the naked eye; they deny that great spiritual depth is needed to illuminate a picture taken from base life and exalt it into a pearl of creation, that lofty ecstatic laughter deserves equal status with lofty lyrical impulses, and that there is a whole gulf between that laughter and the contortions of a Punch-and-Judy man. Today’s arbiters do not recognize this truth and will use anything as a pretext to rebuke and revile the writer of no repute: without communion, response or sympathy, like a solitary traveler, he will be left alone in mid-journey. His prospects are grim, and his solitude will hit him hard. Some wondrous power has doomed me for a long time to walk hand in hand with my strange heroes, to survey in its entirety life that rushes along so massively, to survey it through laughter that is visible to the world and through tears which the world cannot see and does not know.” 

Again, the narrator defends his choice of subject matter from imaginary disdainful interlocutors. He argues that literature devoted to “the movements of insects” that is, ordinary people doing ordinary things, still requires talent. While others would argue that “base life” is an unworthy subject, Gogol defends “ecstatic” laughter that ultimately provides a broad perspective and pathos, though his choice “dooms” him to partnership with “strange heroes” like Chichikov. Gogol sees satire as a moral project that requires investment in the misadventures of a morally bankrupt con artist.

“One of the priests officiating to Themis, a man who had sacrificed so diligently to that goddess that both his sleeves had frayed at the elbows, so that the lining stuck out, his diligence promoting him in due course to the rank of collegiate registrar, assisted our friends as Virgil once assisted Dante, and took them to the judge’s office, where there were only broad armchairs and a desk laden with a crystal pyramid inscribed with all Peter the Great’s decrees and two thick books. Here the chief judge presided, like the sun, alone, and the new Virgil was overcome by such veneration that he dared not put a foot in the room, but retreated, showing a back as well scraped as a doormat, with a chicken feather sticking to it.” 

The mock epic approach comically elevates this depiction of corruption. The clerk, aware Chichikov has just paid his bribe, becomes an acolyte of Themis, the Greek goddess of justice. His clothes badly frayed by his devotions, this vassal of the Greek gods leads Chichikov and Manilov as Virgil does Dante in the Divine Comedy—though of course instead of steering them through the afterlife, he helps them make way through the corrupt Russian civil service. The office has its own symbolism: The legal tomes of Peter the Great reference the tsar who created the very bureaucracy Gogol is satirizing.

“A whole hour was devoted just to examining his face in the mirror. Attempts were made to confer on it a number of different expressions: grave and dignified, or respectful with a slight smile, or simply respectful with no smile; a number of bows were performed towards the mirror, accompanied by vague sounds, in part resembling French, although Chichikov did not know a word of French. He even gave himself numerous pleasant surprises, raising an eyebrow, curling a lip, going so far as to try a few tricks with his tongue: to sum up, what won’t you try when you’re on your own and feeling happy with yourself—and, what is more, certain that nobody is going to take a look through a crack in the door?” 

Chichikov has a high opinion of his social standing and intellect. This scene before the ball emphasizes that he is also vain. He primps in front of the mirror, trying on a variety of expressions and perfecting his upcoming social performance. He even mimics the sounds of French, which he does not speak, to make himself seem more aristocratic.

“We shall now learn why the men thought that there was something nasty and bad behind it all: a new governor-general had been appointed to the province, and this is an event which is known to induce in officials a state of alarm—there will be reshuffles, severe reprimands, horrible upheavals and all sorts of unpleasant dishes which a boss forces his underlings to partake of. ‘Well,’ thought the officials, ‘if he happens to find out that these stupid rumors are running round town, that on its own will be enough to make him boil over, with consequences that will be fatal, not funny.’ The medical-services inspector suddenly turned pale: God knows what he was imagining—did the phrase ‘dead souls’ perhaps refer to the patients who had been dying in significant numbers in the hospitals and other places of epidemic fever, against which appropriate measures had not been taken?” 

This catalogue of rhetorical questions emphasizes the power of rumor and gossip. The townspeople have taken one fact—Chichikov’s purchase of dead souls—and combined it with their own anxieties. The motif of an official coming to town to unearth corruption is the central plot point of Gogol’s 1836 play, The Government Inspector. Like the characters in that comedy, here, the aristocrats of the town fear being exposed, and then fired or reassigned from lucrative government posts.

“He’ll hold doctors in contempt all his life and end by turning to a peasant wise woman who will treat him with whispered spells and magic dollops of spit or, better still, himself invent some concoction of God knows what rubbish, which he will imagine to be, God knows why, the right medicine for his illness. One can, of course, to a certain extent forgive the officials because of their genuinely difficult situation. They say that a drowning man clutches at straws, and at such a time he hasn’t got the sense to consider that only a fly might be able to ride on a straw, whereas he weighs almost 170 pounds, if not all of two hundred; but such considerations don’t even occur to him, and he clutches at the straw. Similarly, our gentlemen finally seized on Nozdryov.” 

In his role of observer of human nature, the narrator comments on the tendency to turn to superstition in times of stress. He claims that one can “forgive” the local officials this lapse, though this gesture at sympathy does nothing to make the men look less ridiculous. The humor in the situation is extended through wordplay, as the narrator imagines the massive men literally grasping at straws. Their "straw” is Nozdyrov—an absurd metaphor that highlight the incredible myopia that prevents these men from questioning Chichikov himself. This comedy of errors establishes that while Chichikov may be clever and wily, his targets are extremely gullible.

“Why should I hold back? Who else, if not the author, is obliged to speak the sacred truth? You fear a penetrating stare; you are too frightened to fix your own stare on anything; you like to cast a superficial glance with unthinking eyes. You will even laugh with all your heart at Chichikov; you may even praise the author and say, ‘He really has caught a few things: he must be a man who likes a good laugh.’ And after those words, you will turn to yourself with your pride redoubled; a self-satisfied smile will appear on your face, and you will add, ‘But one has to agree that there are some very odd and very funny people in some provinces, and pretty big scoundrels too.’ But who among you, so full of Christian humility, will in silence, not out aloud, and in a moment of solitary conversation with himself, look deep inside his own soul and ask this difficult question: ‘Isn’t there a bit of Chichikov in me, too?’” 

The narrator explains his broader satirical project as a “sacred” act: Highlighting Chichikov’s immorality is a moral undertaking and not simply entertainment. The narrator rejects the idea that provoking laughter is sufficient, or a sign the reader has understood his work. He imagines his readers as “self-satisfied,” amused at the antics of distant provincials. He suggests that the real goal would be a more spiritual interrogation, asking whether his readers have something of Chichikov inside them.

“You have caught the sound of a familiar song on high; you have girded your bronze chests together as one and, your hooves barely touching the ground, you have been transformed into just endless lines flying through the air, and the whole troika flies, inspired by God!… Russia, where are you hurtling to? Give an answer! There is no answer. The bell peals with a wonderful ringing; the air, ripped to pieces, roars and becomes wind; everything that exists on earth flies past, and other nations and empires look askance and stand back to make way for the troika.” 

The closing scene of first part of the novel focuses on travel and movement, as Chichikov heads for a new, unknown destination. His troika, or the three horses pulling his carriage, gains an almost supernatural power, a symphony of sound and speed. Its purpose may in fact be divine, and the narrator equates it with Russia hurtling past its competitors. Many Russian thinkers in the 19th century contemplated Russia’s national destiny vis-a-vis Western Europe, and Gogol evokes this directly through this metaphor.

“Where is the man capable of uttering that all-powerful word ‘Onwards!’ in a language that the Russian soul understands, a man who knows all the force and properties and depth of our nature and can with one magical gesture inspire us to aim for higher things in life? What tears and what affection he would receive in return from the grateful Russian! But centuries follow centuries, and half a million layabouts, lazybones and sluggards slumber undisturbed, and a man capable of pronouncing this all-powerful word is rarely born in Russia.”

This reflection on Tentetnikov’s inertia links his struggle for purpose with those of his generation, who long for a strong personality to urge the nation to greatness. Gogol obliquely evokes the nation-building project of Peter the Great, or the victory of Alexander I over Napoleon. At the same time, because Tentetnikov is a firmly ridiculous figure who neglects his estate and sabotages his own romantic future, his longing for a “magical” solution seems absurd. He is one of 19th century Russian literature’s superfluous men: Characters portrayed as talented individuals who can find no use for their energies in Russia—though a comic version rather than a tragic one.

“The visitor referred more, however, to events in his private world. He likened his fate to that of a vessel at sea, driven hither and thither by treacherous winds; he mentioned that he had had to change employment frequently, that he had suffered a lot for the sake of truth and justice, that his very life had several times been in danger from his enemies, and he said a lot that suggested he was mostly a pragmatist. As he concluded his speech, he blew his nose in a fine white cambric handkerchief: the noise was louder than anything Tentetnikov had ever heard.”

Chichikov frequently refers to himself as a storm-tossed boat, casting himself as a victim of fate or a suffering hero. He claims that the forces that beset him are “treacherous” and that he has “suffered” mortal peril for the sake of higher ideals. Of course, as we know from the narrator, Chichikov is not heroic and whatever torments he has undergone have been of his own making. The concluding image, of Chichikov honking so loudly Tentetnikov is stunned, adds a further note of absurdity to his claims, though the credulous Tentetnikov accepts his narrative at face value.

“‘But there was no room in the church until the mayor came, and then there was. And before it was so crowded that there was no room for an apple to fall. Just try: this piece is like the mayor.’ Chichikov did try and, in fact, the piece was like the mayor. Room was found when it seemed that no more could be crammed in. ‘Well, how can a man like that go to Petersburg or Moscow?’ thought Chichikov. ‘In three years, hospitality like this will make a pauper of him.’ He didn’t know about the latest improvements: even without hospitality, paupers can be made in three months, not years.” 

Chichikov’s dinner with Petukh features comically sumptuous feasting. Petukh is so devoted to food he resorts to literary analogy to get his guest to eat. The final lamb chop is like the mayor at a crowded reception, and this law of hospitality must be obeyed. This episode highlights the novel’s interest in greed: Chichikov’s lust for money here meets its match in Petukh’s gluttony. Chichikov is happy that Petukh lives in the provinces rather than in one of the imperial capitals, where his largesse would quickly bankrupt him. The narrator sardonically agrees, noting that the city impoverishes people even faster than Chichikov originally estimates.

“Platonov’s eyes popped out of his head. He still did not realize that in Russia’s towns and capital cities there are sages whose lives are completely inexplicable enigmas. They seem to have squandered everything, they are up to their ears in debt, they have no resources left, but they give dinners: and all the diners say that this is the last dinner and that their host will be dragged off to prison the next day. Then ten years pass and the great sage is still holding out, even more in debt than ever, and giving another dinner at which all the diners are convinced that it is the last, and that the next day their host will be dragged off to prison.” 

Platonov is stunned by Khlobuyev’s ability to host lavish parties when he can no longer support his estate or feed his peasants. This phenomenon is one of Russia’s “inexplicable enigmas”—an entire elite class that has failed at basic survival but cannot sacrifice luxury. The narrator takes the joke to the most extreme conclusion, imagining that these cycles of debt last for a decade, he sarcastically compares the debtor to a “great sage” whose wisdom extends only to prolonging luxury, not reducing debt or creating a sustainable lifestyle.

“‘The main thing is to confuse the issue. You can confuse things, you can tangle everything up so much that nobody will understand a thing. Why am I so calm? Because I know that if things ever get worse for me, I’ll entangle everybody in my case: the governor, the vice-governor, the chief of police and the treasurer—I’ll entangle the lot of them. I know all the little details about them: who is angry with whom, who resents whom, who wants to frame whom. Then I’d like to see them disentangle themselves. By the time they work themselves free, others will get their turn at the trough. You only catch crayfish in muddied waters. Everyone is waiting for a chance to entangle other people.’ At this point the philosopher-lawyer looked Chichikov in the eye again, with the enjoyment of a teacher explaining to a pupil an even more entrancing point of Russian grammar.” 

Chichikov’s lawyer is a far more confident mastermind than even Chichikov himself. The lawyer’s mastery lies in his comprehensive view of Russia’s bureaucratic ecosystem, which he likens to a web in which almost anyone can be “entangled” with enough care. The key is observation, knowing “who wants to frame whom.” This is a more expert version of Chichikov’s earlier efforts to find and befriend wealthy landowners. In this scene, Chichikov, despite his long experience, is a “pupil” in the presence of a real expert.

“The luxurious velvet waistcoat set off the cuffs, while the Navarino smoke-and-flame frock coat shone like silk and set off all the rest. He turned to the right: it was good! He turned to the left: it was even better! He had a figure, when he bent, like an emperor’s chamberlain or one of those gentlemen who babble away in French and even when they are angry are unable to curse in Russian, but swear at someone in French dialect, being so refined. He tried bending his head slightly to one side, posing as if he were addressing a lady who was a middle-aged and up-to-date blue-stocking: it was a picture to behold. Artist, take your brush and paint him!” 

Chichikov’s vanity reaches a new point when he purchases a lavish silk coat inspired by the red flames of Russia’s naval triumph in battle over Turkey. As he preens in the mirror, we remember an earlier scene of his primping before the governor’s ball. That social event was his undoing, as his behavior drew attention to his conduct toward women and his dead soul scheme. Now, like then, he pretends to know French, the better to feign elite status. As usual, the narrator is disdainful of Francophone Russian nobles, calling their speech “babble” and poking fun at the idea that swearing in French is somehow couth.

“Tell me, what kind of bad luck is it when every time you are just starting to harvest the fruit and you reach out with your hand…suddenly, there’s a storm, a treacherous reef, and you’re shipwrecked and your ship is smashed to smithereens? For example, I had a capital sum of nearly three hundred thousand rubles. I already owned a three-storey house. Twice I was on the point of buying a village. Oh, Afanasy Vasilyevich, what sort of fate is this? Why do I get such hard knocks? Isn’t my life anyway like a vessel on the waves?” 

In this scene, Chichikov sees that greed has been the whole of his life and may consume his future. Chichikov’s lament to Murazov is full of mixed metaphors. Getting wealth is like plucking fruit from a tree, but losing it is like suffering a shipwreck. Significantly, Chichikov dwells only on the danger to himself, and never the pain he has caused others. Still, he questions whether his existence as a crook is fated and wonders why this pattern has recurred in his life—self-examination that could undergird future redemption.

“The horses were all harnessed. Chichikov, however, tried his frock coat on. It was good, exactly like the first one. But, alas, he noticed a smooth white patch on his head and sadly commented, “Why did I have to let distress get the better of me so? And even less should I have torn my hair.” He paid off the tailor and finally drove out of town in a rather strange state of mind. This was not the Chichikov of former times. This was the wreck of the old Chichikov. The state of his inner soul could be compared with a dismantled building, which has been taken apart in order to construct a new one; but work has not yet started on the new building, because the architect has not yet delivered the final plans, and the workmen don’t know what to do.” 

Chichikov’s final scene sees his vanity restored. He purchases a new bright frock coat, and reproaches himself for the anxiety he suffered in prison because it has adversely affected his appearance. He is, however, “not the Chichikov of former times”: His “inner soul” is a building that has been taken apart, without “final plans” for a new structure. Chichikov may take Murazov and Kostanzhoglo’s advice, to reform himself and become a model citizen, or he may journey in the same direction as always. The fate of the troika is unclear.