Chapter 5 of 10

Chapter 5. "Dead Souls": A Startup Selling Air

If Chichikov had been born in our time, he'd be trading cryptocurrency, NFTs, or carbon credits—anything you can't touch but can sell. Or he'd be a startup founder selling something invisible for real money. Or a financial consultant convincing you to invest in something that doesn't exist. Because "Dead Souls" is essentially a story about a man who invented a brilliant scheme: buying what no longer exists in order to get real money for it.

Sounds insane? Welcome to nineteenth-century Russia, where insanity was official economic policy.

But let's take it step by step. Because Gogol isn't just a writer. He's a man who looked at Russia, saw right through it, described it so precisely that everyone recognized themselves—and then went mad from what he saw. Literally. But more on that later.

***

So, into the provincial town of N (Gogol loved these mysterious letters instead of names—apparently afraid that a specific town might sue for libel) rolls a carriage. In the carriage sits a gentleman "neither handsome nor ugly, neither too fat nor too thin." In short, the most average guy possible. The kind you'd pass on the street and never remember. And that's no accident. Chichikov is a professional chameleon. He knows how to please everyone because he himself is nobody.

With him are the coachman Selifan (a philosopher who talks to horses) and the servant Petrushka (who never bathes and reads books without understanding a word—he just likes how letters form words). Chichikov takes a room at the inn, and what we'd now call "networking" begins.

Within a few days, this man manages to meet all the important people in town. The governor? Charmed. The prosecutor? Delighted. The police chief? Best friend. Chichikov tells each person exactly what they want to hear. With the governor—about embroidery (yes, the governor embroiders, don't ask). With landowners—about estate management. With officials—about service. He's like a social GPS: instantly determining which way to turn in a conversation.

Everyone decides Chichikov is a wonderful person. "Most agreeable!" say the ladies. "A practical man!" the gentlemen nod. And nobody asks the main question: what exactly does he do? Why has he come? Where does his money come from?

Because in nineteenth-century Russia (and not only the nineteenth century, to be honest) the main thing isn't what you do but how you look. If you look respectable and say the right words—you're one of us. The rest is details.

***

And what Chichikov does is this: he buys dead souls.

Wait, what?

Yes. Dead serfs. Peasants who have died but are still listed as alive in the documents. Because the census (revision) was conducted once every several years, and between censuses, a landowner paid taxes for everyone on the list—living or dead. Your peasant died the day after the census? Congratulations, you'll pay for a ghost for the next five years.

Chichikov offers landowners a deal: he buys these dead ones (meaning he takes on the documents and tax obligations), and the landowner gets rid of the financial burden. Everyone's happy. But why does Chichikov want this?

Here's where the scheme's brilliance lies. He plans to mortgage these "peasants" at a bank. On paper, they're alive; he has an official deed of purchase. The bank issues a loan against the collateral of his "property." Chichikov gets real money for nonexistent people. By the time the bank figures it out—and it won't, because bureaucracy—Chichikov will be long gone.

Chichikov's scheme is the NFT of the nineteenth century: selling what doesn't exist to a buyer who believes it does, with the tacit consent of all parties involved.

***

But the most delicious part of "Dead Souls" isn't the scheme. It's the landowners. Gogol created a gallery of human types that nobody has surpassed since. Each landowner is a single vice taken to its absolute extreme. Like a video game where each boss has their own specialty.

Chichikov travels from landowner to landowner, and we witness a parade of ugliness in the Russian soul. Not in the sense of "Russians are bad"—no. In the sense of "look what we can become if we don't watch ourselves."

Let's go.

***

First visit—to Manilov.

Manilov is a man who lives in dreams. Literally. He sits in his estate, gazes out the window, and thinks about beautiful things. About how nice it would be to build an underground passage from the house to town. Or a bridge across the pond with shops where peasants would sell their wares. He'll never do any of this. He won't even finish the book he's reading—the bookmark has been on page 14 for two years.

Manilov is the embodiment of sweet, fruitless daydreaming. He's pleasant, courteous, speaks beautifully. He and his wife have an idyll: they feed each other morsels from their forks at dinner and name their children Themistoclus and Alcides (because Greek names sound smart). Meanwhile, the estate is falling apart, the peasants live however they can, and Manilov doesn't notice—he's busy dreaming.

When Chichikov asks to buy dead peasants, Manilov first doesn't understand. Then understands and gets frightened. Then decides it must be some kind of metaphor. Then simply gives them away for free—because he likes Chichikov so much that refusing is impossible. Manilov can't say "no." He's incapable of anything concrete whatsoever.

Know people like that? Who always say "we should get together sometime," "that would be cool," "ideally"—but never do anything? Who post about grand plans on social media but a year later are still sitting on the couch? That's Manilov. Gogol even coined a term—"Manilovism." Pointless daydreaming unsupported by action.

Chichikov leaves Manilov with free dead souls and mild bewilderment: how can someone be so helplessly pleasant?

***

Second visit—accidental. Chichikov got lost, was caught in the rain, and ended up at Korobochka's.

Korobochka is a widow, an elderly landowner who has everything organized on shelves. Literally. Little bags of money, supplies, records—everything labeled, everything accounted for. She's practical, distrustful, thrifty. And absolutely, totally, cosmically stupid.

Not in terms of IQ. In terms of being incapable of understanding anything beyond her little world. When Chichikov offers to buy dead peasants, she doesn't understand why he wants them. And can't understand. Her brain gets stuck on this question like a computer in an infinite loop.

"What if they might be useful around the estate?" she asks. The dead ones. Useful around the estate. Chichikov explains that they're dead. Korobochka nods and asks: "Maybe we could dig them up?"

This isn't a joke. This is actually in the book.

She haggles until she's blue in the face. Afraid of selling too cheap. "What if you're cheating me? What if they're worth something these days? Let me go to town and find out what dead souls are going for now…" Chichikov nearly tears his hair out. Eventually he buys the souls, and she makes him take some honey and feathers too (she pushes them on him), and he leaves with a migraine.

Korobochka represents fear of the new. Any new thing. She's not evil, not particularly greedy—she just doesn't understand the world beyond her fence. And doesn't want to. She's comfortable in her little bag labeled "for a rainy day." Everything else is a threat.

Know people who are afraid of online banking because "what if they steal it"? Who don't believe anything they don't understand? Who ask the same question fifteen times because new information won't fit into their worldview? That's Korobochka.

***

Third visit—to Nozdryov. And here Chichikov realizes he's in trouble.

Nozdryov is chaos in human form. He lies constantly, on the fly, for no purpose. He brags about things he never did. He proposes insane bets. He fights. He gets drunk. He drags Chichikov to his estate and tries to sell him a stallion, dogs, a barrel organ, and a plot of land—all simultaneously, changing prices every five minutes.

When Chichikov asks to buy dead souls, Nozdryov first wants to sell, then offers to trade for a stallion, then demands Chichikov also take a carriage, then proposes playing checkers—whoever wins gets the souls. Chichikov agrees out of desperation. Nozdryov cheats so blatantly it's visible to the naked eye. When Chichikov tries to leave, Nozdryov orders his servants to beat him.

Only chance saves Chichikov: a police official arrives at the estate on some business, and Nozdryov gets distracted.

Nozdryov is energy without direction. He can't sit still, can't stand still, can't keep quiet. He must constantly be doing something, saying something, lying, scheming. Yet he's not evil—he simply doesn't understand that lying is wrong. For him, it's like breathing. Lying means living.

Know people like that? Who promise everything and deliver nothing? Who start a new project every week and abandon it? Who lie so often they can no longer tell truth from fiction? Who drag you into schemes and disappear when it's time to face consequences? That's Nozdryov.

Chichikov leaves without dead souls but with an understanding: some people are dangerous not because they're evil, but because they're chaotic.

***

Fourth visit—to Sobakevich. The complete opposite of Nozdryov.

Sobakevich is brute force. He's huge, square, looks like a bear. Everything in his house is massive: furniture that seems to say "I'm a Sobakevich too," paintings of fat generals, portions of food the size of a small table. When Sobakevich eats—it's not a meal, it's an industrial process.

He doesn't float in the clouds like Manilov. He's not afraid of the new like Korobochka. He's not chaotic like Nozdryov. Sobakevich knows exactly what he wants: money. And he'll get it.

When Chichikov brings up dead souls, Sobakevich doesn't even blink. He immediately names a price—an insane price. "A hundred rubles per soul!" Chichikov is shocked: a living serf costs thirty to fifty rubles, and here we're talking about dead ones, who are worth nothing at all.

The bargaining begins. Epic. Sobakevich praises his deceased as if selling the living: "Mikheev, the carriage-maker! Such carriages he made—the springs lasted three years! And Stepan Probka, the carpenter! What a strongman! They'd have taken him into the Guards!" He knows he's selling air, but he haggles as if it were gold.

Eventually they settle on two and a half rubles per soul. Sobakevich immediately tries to slip a woman into the list (Elizavet Vorobey—he signs her as a man) to get more money. When Chichikov notices—he just shrugs.

Sobakevich represents practicality taken to cynicism. He doesn't believe in anyone or anything. The governor? A bandit. The prosecutor? A pig. Everyone around is a swindler or a fool, and the only way to survive is to be stronger and craftier than they are.

Know people like that? Who always haggle, even when it's inappropriate? Who see a potential enemy in everyone? Who'll squeeze everything out of you and feel nothing? Who can be reliable partners—as long as it's profitable for them? That's Sobakevich.

***

Fifth visit—to Plyushkin. And here Gogol delivers the main attraction.

Chichikov goes to Plyushkin on a tip: they say his peasants are dying like flies. The perfect target for buying dead souls. But when Chichikov arrives at the estate, he doesn't understand where he is.

The manor looks abandoned. Roofs have caved in. Windows are boarded up. Junk everywhere: broken barrels, rotting boards, random rags. The garden is wild overgrowth. Somewhere a malnourished cow is lowing.

A creature of indeterminate sex emerges, dressed in some kind of rags. Chichikov takes it for the housekeeper and asks where the master is. "I am the master," the creature replies.

This is Plyushkin. Once a wealthy landowner with a family and a huge estate. Then his wife died, his daughter ran off with an officer, his son gambled everything away. Plyushkin grew bitter at the world and started hoarding. Everything. Nails, rags, feathers, scraps from the table. He walks through the village picking up garbage. Peasants flee from him—some die of hunger, some run away. Plyushkin lists the runaways as dead to avoid paying taxes.

His wealth rots in the barns. Grain turns to stone. Fabrics disintegrate. Food spoils. He doesn't sell anything—what if he needs it? He doesn't eat properly—saving. Meanwhile, he has thousands of serf souls (or had—a few hundred remain).

When Chichikov offers to buy the dead, Plyushkin is delighted. Of course! Someone's willing to pay for what no longer exists! That's the ideal deal! He sells Chichikov over a hundred dead and several dozen runaways.

Plyushkin is greed that has devoured a person from within. It's the fear of losing, taken to absurdity: he lost everything trying to keep it. Family, respect, health, sanity. All he has left are piles of junk and paranoia.

Gogol writes about him with horror and pity simultaneously. This was a living person. With feelings, with family, with plans. And he became—this. And any of us can become this if we allow one emotion (fear, greed, resentment) to consume our soul entirely.

Know people who collect junk and can't throw anything away? Who save on food while having money? Who lost loved ones and shut themselves off from the world? That's Plyushkin. Only taken to the extreme.

***

So, Chichikov has a complete collection. Free souls from Manilov. Ones bargained out of Korobochka. Ones won in an epic haggling match with Sobakevich. A harvest from Plyushkin. Only Nozdryov was a failure—but he'll definitely find a way to cause trouble later.

Chichikov returns to town and registers the transactions. The officials see documents for the purchase of hundreds of serfs and decide: Chichikov is a rich man! A millionaire! Now everyone wants to be friends with him even more. Ladies call him "charming." Someone's already thinking of marrying their daughter to him.

And then everything falls apart.

Nozdryov, of course. He shows up at a ball, drunk and excited, and starts telling everyone that Chichikov is buying dead people. And he lies so inspired that no one can tell what's true anymore: is Chichikov a spy, or a kidnapper of the governor's daughter, or a counterfeiter?

Then Korobochka arrives. She got scared that she sold too cheap and came to find out what dead souls are going for these days. Panic spreads through the town.

Everyone is discussing Chichikov. Theories multiply. Some are certain he's Napoleon, escaped from St. Helena. Others think he wants to kidnap the governor's daughter. The prosecutor gets so nervous that he… dies. Just dies from stress. At his funeral, Chichikov realizes: time to run.

He leaves town at night, in his carriage, with coachman Selifan. The town remains behind—shaken, frightened, never having understood who this was or what he wanted.

***

And here Gogol pulls a twist. Instead of continuing the story, he inserts a huge digression about Chichikov's childhood. Where did this man come from? How did he become this way?

The answer: he was made.

His father—a minor official—taught little Pavlusha one thing: save money and please your superiors. "Betray a friend—good boy. Please your boss—well done. Save money—the main thing in life." No love, no warmth. Only pragmatism elevated to religion.

Pavlusha grew up, studied at a school. Sucked up to teachers. Saved on food to hoard money. Sold classmates food at triple the price. By graduation he had a decent sum—his first capital.

Then service. Chichikov pleased his superiors so skillfully that he rose to a decent position. Fell in love with the daughter of an old official, courted her—and when he realized the old man wouldn't advance his career, dropped her and moved to another boss.

Worked in customs. Caught smugglers. Then started taking bribes from smugglers himself. Got caught, imprisoned, everything confiscated. Started from zero. Worked in some commission. Invented the dead souls scheme. Went to implement it.

That's the whole Chichikov. Not a villain, not a genius—just a product of the system. A person from whom everything human was squeezed out and replaced with one thing: "accumulate and survive." He doesn't understand he's doing anything wrong. For him, this is normal business.

And that's scarier than if he were a villain.

***

Now the main question: what is this book actually about?

On the surface—satire. Gogol mocks landowners, officials, the entire system of serfdom. Shows how absurd it is: people buy and sell other people, living and dead, like objects. Nobody sees a problem with this.

Deeper—this is a book about emptiness. "Dead Souls" isn't just about the peasants. It's about the landowners, who have long been spiritually dead. Manilov is dead—he doesn't live, he dreams. Korobochka is dead—she doesn't grow, she fears. Nozdryov is dead—he doesn't build, he destroys. Sobakevich is dead—he doesn't feel, he consumes. Plyushkin is dead—he doesn't accumulate, he rots along with his possessions.

And Chichikov is dead—he has nothing but his goal. No love, no friendship, no principles. Only a plan and money.

Even deeper—this is a book about Russia. Gogol ends the first volume with the famous lyrical digression about the troika. "Russia, where are you flying? Give an answer. No answer." These aren't just pretty words. This is the cry of a man who loves his country, sees it in all its horror—and cannot understand where it's headed.

Gogol planned three volumes. In the first—to show the sins. In the second—the path to redemption, good people, hope. In the third—Russia's spiritual transformation.

He wrote only the first. The second he wrote, rewrote, agonized over—and burned. Twice. The manuscript he'd worked on for ten years—into the fire. Why?

***

Here we enter the territory of psychology, not literary criticism. But let's try.

Gogol was a man who saw the world too clearly. He saw vices, absurdity, emptiness—and described them brilliantly. But when he tried to show goodness, the ideal, redemption—the words wouldn't come. Because he himself didn't believe in what he was writing.

How do you show a good landowner when you know the system makes all landowners bad? How do you show the path to goodness when you see that evil is built into the very structure of life? How do you describe a country's spiritual transformation when the country doesn't want to change?

Gogol tried. Wrote. Reread—and realized it was a lie. Beautiful, well-meaning, but a lie. His positive characters came out cardboard. His path to goodness—naive. He was too honest to lie to the reader. And too tormented to find the truth.

In his final years, Gogol turned to religion. Associated with fanatical priests. Fasted to the point of exhaustion. Believed his talent came from the devil. That he had to atone for what he'd written. Burned the manuscript. Died a few days later.

He was forty-two years old.

***

So that's the story. A book about a swindler who buys the dead—written by a genius who killed himself trying to write about the living.

But don't think "Dead Souls" is depressing reading. On the contrary. It's funny. Gogol is a great comedian. The scene where Chichikov haggles with Sobakevich is Netflix-level stand-up. The description of Nozdryov lying is absurdist comedy. The conversations of the town ladies ("simply pleasant" and "pleasant in all respects") are satire on gossip that could be transplanted into any modern chat.

And yet—depth. Under every joke—tragedy. Under every caricature—a living person who could have been different but wasn't. Gogol laughs and cries at the same time. And makes us do the same.

***

Now about why this is relevant today.

Chichikov's scheme is the prototype of any financial pyramid. Selling what doesn't exist. Getting money for air. Running before you're caught. MMM? Chichikov. Finiko? Chichikov. Crypto that promises thousands of percent annually? Chichikov in digital format.

The landowners are types of people who haven't gone anywhere.

Manilow is a blogger who talks about great plans and does nothing. The endless podcasts about productivity from people who produce nothing. Motivational posts with sunsets and quotes.

Korobochka is people who don't understand cryptocurrency, online banking, and food delivery because "that's not how things were done before." Who ask the same question over and over because new information won't fit in their heads.

Nozdryov is a person who constantly lies on social media about their achievements. Who "launches a new business" every month. Who invites you to a "unique opportunity" and then disappears with your money.

Sobakevich is a businessman who considers everyone an idiot and tries to profit from each one. Who sells you a course for a hundred thousand rubles and doesn't answer questions. Who says "nothing personal, just business" and thinks that excuses everything.

Plyushkin is pathological hoarding, which now even has a scientific name (hoarding disorder). People whose apartments are packed with junk to the ceiling. But not only that. It's anyone who's so afraid of losing something that they lose everything else.

***

And Chichikov is a system that produces soulless people.

He was taught: please the powerful, use the weak, save money, don't get attached. He executed the program perfectly. And became empty. Successful, pleasant, enterprising—and absolutely empty.

Sound familiar? We're taught the same: build a career, make money, be efficient. And as for what to live for—you'll figure that out later. Or you won't. Or you won't have time—work.

Gogol saw this in 1842. We're still producing Chichikovs.

***

And lastly. About Russia and the troika.

At the end of the first volume, Gogol describes Chichikov's carriage flying down the road. Coachman Selifan urges the horses on. And suddenly—the carriage transforms into a troika, the troika into a symbol, the symbol into Russia.

"And what Russian doesn't love fast driving? […] Ah, troika! Bird-troika, who invented you? […] Isn't it so with you too, Russia, rushing like an unstoppable troika? […] Russia, where are you flying? Give an answer. No answer."

This isn't just a beautiful passage. This is a cry. Gogol looks at the country he loves, sees that it's racing somewhere at full speed—and nobody knows where. Not even those who govern. Especially not those who govern.

And here's what's interesting: Chichikov is riding in that troika. The swindler. The soulless man. He's the passenger of this mad gallop. He's the symbol of what that troika carries.

Gogol doesn't give an answer to where Russia is flying. Because he doesn't know. Because he's afraid to find out. Because, maybe, there is no answer—only movement, only speed, only the eternal "we'll figure it out later."

Almost two hundred years have passed. We're still riding. Still don't know where. Still give no answer.

***

IF YOU HAVE NO TIME AT ALL

Chichikov is a charming swindler. He buys dead serfs from landowners to mortgage them at a bank and get a loan.

The landowners:

— Manilov—a sweet dreamer who does nothing.

— Korobochka—dim practicality, afraid of everything new.

— Nozdryov—a chaotic liar and brawler.

— Sobakevich—a crude cynic who'll squeeze out everything.

— Plyushkin—greed that devoured the man.

They're all types of dead souls. Alive in body, dead in spirit.

The ending: the scheme is exposed, Chichikov flees town.

The burned volume: Gogol tried to write about goodness and couldn't. Burned the manuscript and died.

Key quote: "Russia, where are you flying? Give an answer. No answer."

Main idea: the system makes people empty, and empty people make the system worse. A vicious circle that Gogol saw—and couldn't break even on paper.