Dead Souls
shining, and that you have reached a strange town of churches and old
wooden cupolas and blackened spires and white, half-timbered houses! And
as the moonlight glints hither and thither, almost you will believe that
the walls and the streets and the pavements of the place are spread with
sheets--sheets shot with coal-black shadows which make the wooden roofs
look all the brighter under the slanting beams of the pale luminary.
Nowhere is a soul to be seen, for every one is plunged in slumber. Yet
no. In a solitary window a light is flickering where some good burgher
is mending his boots, or a baker drawing a batch of dough. O night
and powers of heaven, how perfect is the blackness of your infinite
vault--how lofty, how remote its inaccessible depths where it lies
spread in an intangible, yet audible, silence! Freshly does the lulling
breath of night blow in your face, until once more you relapse into
snoring oblivion, and your poor neighbour turns angrily in his corner as
he begins to be conscious of your weight. Then again you awake, but
this time to find yourself confronted with only fields and steppes.
Everywhere in the ascendant is the desolation of space. But suddenly the
ciphers on a verst stone leap to the eye! Morning is rising, and on the
chill, gradually paling line of the horizon you can see gleaming a faint
gold streak. The wind freshens and grows keener, and you snuggle closer
in your cloak; yet how glorious is that freshness, and how marvellous
the sleep in which once again you become enfolded! A jolt!--and for the
last time you return to consciousness. By now the sun is high in the
heavens, and you hear a voice cry “gently, gently!” as a farm waggon
issues from a by-road. Below, enclosed within an ample dike, stretches
a sheet of water which glistens like copper in the sunlight. Beyond, on
the side of a slope, lie some scattered peasants’ huts, a manor house,
and, flanking the latter, a village church with its cross flashing
like a star. There also comes wafted to your ear the sound of peasants’
laughter, while in your inner man you are becoming conscious of an
appetite which is not to be withstood.
Oh long-drawn highway, how excellent you are! How often have I in
weariness and despondency set forth upon your length, and found in you
salvation and rest! How often, as I followed your leading, have I been
visited with wonderful thoughts and poetic dreams and curious, wild
impressions!
At this moment our friend Chichikov also was experiencing visions of a
not wholly prosaic nature. Let us peep into his soul and share them.
At first he remained unconscious of anything whatsoever, for he was too
much engaged in making sure that he was really clear of the town; but
as soon as he saw that it had completely disappeared, with its mills and
factories and other urban appurtenances, and that even the steeples
of the white stone churches had sunk below the horizon, he turned his
attention to the road, and the town of N. vanished from his thoughts as
completely as though he had not seen it since childhood. Again, in its
turn, the road ceased to interest him, and he began to close his eyes
and to loll his head against the cushions. Of this let the author
take advantage, in order to speak at length concerning his hero; since
hitherto he (the author) has been prevented from so doing by Nozdrev and
balls and ladies and local intrigues--by those thousand trifles which
seem trifles only when they are introduced into a book, but which, in
life, figure as affairs of importance. Let us lay them aside, and betake
ourselves to business.
Whether the character whom I have selected for my hero has pleased my
readers is, of course, exceedingly doubtful. At all events the ladies
will have failed to approve him for the fair sex demands in a hero
perfection, and, should there be the least mental or physical stain
on him--well, woe betide! Yes, no matter how profoundly the author may
probe that hero’s soul, no matter how clearly he may portray his figure
as in a mirror, he will be given no credit for the achievement. Indeed,
Chichikov’s very stoutness and plenitude of years may have militated
against him, for never is a hero pardoned for the former, and the
majority of ladies will, in such case, turn away, and mutter to
themselves: “Phew! What a beast!” Yes, the author is well aware of this.
Yet, though he could not, to save his life, take a person of virtue for
his principal character, it may be that this story contains themes
never before selected, and that in it there projects the whole boundless
wealth of Russian psychology; that it portrays, as well as Chichikov,
the peasant who is gifted with the virtues which God has sent him, and
the marvellous maiden of Russia who has not her like in all the world
for her beautiful feminine spirituality, the roots of which lie buried
in noble aspirations and boundless self-denial. In fact, compared with
these types, the virtuous of other races seem lifeless, as does an
inanimate volume when compared with the living word. Yes, each time that
there arises in Russia a movement of thought, it becomes clear that the
movement sinks deep into the Slavonic nature where it would but have
skimmed the surface of other nations.--But why am I talking like this?
Whither am I tending? It is indeed shameful that an author who long
ago reached man’s estate, and was brought up to a course of severe
introspection and sober, solitary self-enlightenment, should give way to
such jejune wandering from the point. To everything its proper time
and place and turn. As I was saying, it does not lie in me to take a
virtuous character for my hero: and I will tell you why. It is because
it is high time that a rest were given to the “poor, but virtuous”
individual; it is because the phrase “a man of worth” has grown into a
by-word; it is because the “man of worth” has become converted into a
horse, and there is not a writer but rides him and flogs him, in and out
of season; it is because the “man of worth” has been starved until he
has not a shred of his virtue left, and all that remains of his body is
but the ribs and the hide; it is because the “man of worth” is for ever
being smuggled upon the scene; it is because the “man of worth” has at
length forfeited every one’s respect. For these reasons do I reaffirm
that it is high time to yoke a rascal to the shafts. Let us yoke that
rascal.
Our hero’s beginnings were both modest and obscure. True, his parents
were dvoriane, but he in no way resembled them. At all events, a short,
squab female relative who was present at his birth exclaimed as she
lifted up the baby: “He is altogether different from what I had expected
him to be. He ought to have taken after his maternal grandmother,
whereas he has been born, as the proverb has it, ‘like not father nor
mother, but like a chance passer-by.’” Thus from the first life
regarded the little Chichikov with sour distaste, and as through a dim,
frost-encrusted window. A tiny room with diminutive casements which were
never opened, summer or winter; an invalid father in a dressing-gown
lined with lambskin, and with an ailing foot swathed in bandages--a man
who was continually drawing deep breaths, and walking up and down the
room, and spitting into a sandbox; a period of perpetually sitting on
a bench with pen in hand and ink on lips and fingers; a period of being
eternally confronted with the copy-book maxim, “Never tell a lie, but
obey your superiors, and cherish virtue in your heart;” an everlasting
scraping and shuffling of slippers up and down the room; a period of
continually hearing a well-known, strident voice exclaim: “So you have
been playing the fool again!” at times when the child, weary of the
mortal monotony of his task, had added a superfluous embellishment
to his copy; a period of experiencing the ever-familiar, but
ever-unpleasant, sensation which ensued upon those words as the boy’s
ear was painfully twisted between two long fingers bent backwards at
the tips--such is the miserable picture of that youth of which, in later
life, Chichikov preserved but the faintest of memories! But in this
world everything is liable to swift and sudden change; and, one day in
early spring, when the rivers had melted, the father set forth with
his little son in a teliezshka [37] drawn by a sorrel steed of the kind
known to horsy folk as a soroka, and having as coachman the diminutive
hunchback who, father of the only serf family belonging to the elder
Chichikov, served as general factotum in the Chichikov establishment.
For a day and a half the soroka conveyed them on their way; during which
time they spent the night at a roadside inn, crossed a river, dined off
cold pie and roast mutton, and eventually arrived at the county town. To
the lad the streets presented a spectacle of unwonted brilliancy, and
he gaped with amazement. Turning into a side alley wherein the mire
necessitated both the most strenuous exertions on the soroka’s part and
the most vigorous castigation on the part of the driver and the barin,
the conveyance eventually reached the gates of a courtyard which,
combined with a small fruit garden containing various bushes, a couple
of apple-trees in blossom, and a mean, dirty little shed, constituted
the premises attached to an antiquated-looking villa. Here there lived
a relative of the Chichikovs, a wizened old lady who went to market in
person and dried her stockings at the samovar. On seeing the boy, she
patted his cheek and expressed satisfaction at his physique; whereupon
the fact became disclosed that here he was to abide for a while, for
the purpose of attending a local school. After a night’s rest his father
prepared to betake himself homeward again; but no tears marked the
parting between him and his son, he merely gave the lad a copper or two
and (a far more important thing) the following injunctions. “See here,
my boy. Do your lessons well, do not idle or play the fool, and above
all things, see that you please your teachers. So long as you observe
these rules you will make progress, and surpass your fellows, even if
God shall have denied you brains, and you should fail in your studies.
Also, do not consort overmuch with your comrades, for they will do you
no good; but, should you do so, then make friends with the richer of
them, since one day they may be useful to you. Also, never entertain or
treat any one, but see that every one entertains and treats YOU. Lastly,
and above all else, keep and save your every kopeck. To save money is
the most important thing in life. Always a friend or a comrade may fail
you, and be the first to desert you in a time of adversity; but never
will a KOPECK fail you, whatever may be your plight. Nothing in the
world cannot be done, cannot be attained, with the aid of money.” These
injunctions given, the father embraced his son, and set forth on his
return; and though the son never again beheld his parent, the latter’s
words and precepts sank deep into the little Chichikov’s soul.
The next day young Pavlushka made his first attendance at school. But no
special aptitude in any branch of learning did he display. Rather, his
distinguishing characteristics were diligence and neatness. On the other
hand, he developed great intelligence as regards the PRACTICAL aspect
of life. In a trice he divined and comprehended how things ought to
be worked, and, from that time forth, bore himself towards his
school-fellows in such a way that, though they frequently gave him
presents, he not only never returned the compliment, but even on
occasions pocketed the gifts for the mere purpose of selling them again.
Also, boy though he was, he acquired the art of self-denial. Of the
trifle which his father had given him on parting he spent not a kopeck,