Dead Souls
Yet that folk should be dissatisfied with my hero matters nothing. What
matters is the fact that, under different circumstances, their approval
could have been taken as a foregone conclusion. That is to say, had not
the author pried over-deeply into Chichikov’s soul, nor stirred up in
its depths what shunned and lay hidden from the light, nor disclosed
those of his hero’s thoughts which that hero would have not have
disclosed even to his most intimate friend; had the author, indeed,
exhibited Chichikov just as he exhibited himself to the townsmen of
N. and Manilov and the rest; well, then we may rest assured that every
reader would have been delighted with him, and have voted him a most
interesting person. For it is not nearly so necessary that Chichikov
should figure before the reader as though his form and person were
actually present to the eye as that, on concluding a perusal of this
work, the reader should be able to return, unharrowed in soul, to that
cult of the card-table which is the solace and delight of all good
Russians. Yes, readers of this book, none of you really care to see
humanity revealed in its nakedness. “Why should we do so?” you say.
“What would be the use of it? Do we not know for ourselves that human
life contains much that is gross and contemptible? Do we not with our
own eyes have to look upon much that is anything but comforting?
Far better would it be if you would put before us what is comely and
attractive, so that we might forget ourselves a little.” In the same
fashion does a landowner say to his bailiff: “Why do you come and tell
me that the affairs of my estate are in a bad way? I know that without
YOUR help. Have you nothing else to tell me? Kindly allow me to forget
the fact, or else to remain in ignorance of it, and I shall be much
obliged to you.” Whereafter the said landowner probably proceeds to
spend on his diversion the money which ought to have gone towards the
rehabilitation of his affairs.
Possibly the author may also incur censure at the hands of those
so-called “patriots” who sit quietly in corners, and become capitalists
through making fortunes at the expense of others. Yes, let but something
which they conceive to be derogatory to their country occur--for
instance, let there be published some book which voices the bitter
truth--and out they will come from their hiding-places like a spider
which perceives a fly to be caught in its web. “Is it well to proclaim
this to the world, and to set folk talking about it?” they will cry.
“What you have described touches US, is OUR affair. Is conduct of that
kind right? What will foreigners say? Does any one care calmly to sit
by and hear himself traduced? Why should you lead foreigners to suppose
that all is not well with us, and that we are not patriotic?” Well, to
these sage remarks no answer can really be returned, especially to such
of the above as refer to foreign opinion. But see here. There once lived
in a remote corner of Russia two natives of the region indicated. One of
those natives was a good man named Kifa Mokievitch, and a man of kindly
disposition; a man who went through life in a dressing-gown, and paid no
heed to his household, for the reason that his whole being was centred
upon the province of speculation, and that, in particular, he was
preoccupied with a philosophical problem usually stated by him thus:
“A beast,” he would say, “is born naked. Now, why should that be? Why
should not a beast be born as a bird is born--that is to say, through
the process of being hatched from an egg? Nature is beyond the
understanding, however much one may probe her.” This was the substance
of Kifa Mokievitch’s reflections. But herein is not the chief point.
The other of the pair was a fellow named Mofi Kifovitch, and son to the
first named. He was what we Russians call a “hero,” and while his
father was pondering the parturition of beasts, his, the son’s, lusty,
twenty-year-old temperament was violently struggling for development.
Yet that son could tackle nothing without some accident occurring. At
one moment would he crack some one’s fingers in half, and at another
would he raise a bump on somebody’s nose; so that both at home
and abroad every one and everything--from the serving-maid to the
yard-dog--fled on his approach, and even the bed in his bedroom became
shattered to splinters. Such was Mofi Kifovitch; and with it all he had
a kindly soul. But herein is not the chief point. “Good sir, good Kifa
Mokievitch,” servants and neighbours would come and say to the father,
“what are you going to do about your Moki Kifovitch? We get no rest from
him, he is so above himself.” “That is only his play, that is only his
play,” the father would reply. “What else can you expect? It is too late
now to start a quarrel with him, and, moreover, every one would accuse
me of harshness. True, he is a little conceited; but, were I to reprove
him in public, the whole thing would become common talk, and folk would
begin giving him a dog’s name. And if they did that, would not their
opinion touch me also, seeing that I am his father? Also, I am busy with
philosophy, and have no time for such things. Lastly, Moki Kifovitch
is my son, and very dear to my heart.” And, beating his breast, Kifa
Mokievitch again asserted that, even though his son should elect
to continue his pranks, it would not be for HIM, for the father,
to proclaim the fact, or to fall out with his offspring. And, this
expression of paternal feeling uttered, Kifa Mokievitch left Moki
Kifovitch to his heroic exploits, and himself returned to his beloved
subject of speculation, which now included also the problem, “Suppose
elephants were to take to being hatched from eggs, would not the
shell of such eggs be of a thickness proof against cannonballs, and
necessitate the invention of some new type of firearm?” Thus at the end
of this little story we have these two denizens of a peaceful corner of
Russia looking thence, as from a window, in less terror of doing what
was scandalous than of having it SAID of them that they were acting
scandalously. Yes, the feeling animating our so-called “patriots” is not
true patriotism at all. Something else lies beneath it. Who, if not an
author, is to speak aloud the truth? Men like you, my pseudo-patriots,
stand in dread of the eye which is able to discern, yet shrink from
using your own, and prefer, rather, to glance at everything unheedingly.
Yes, after laughing heartily over Chichikov’s misadventures, and perhaps
even commending the author for his dexterity of observation and pretty
turn of wit, you will look at yourselves with redoubled pride and a
self-satisfied smile, and add: “Well, we agree that in certain parts of
the provinces there exists strange and ridiculous individuals, as well
as unconscionable rascals.”
Yet which of you, when quiet, and alone, and engaged in solitary
self-communion, would not do well to probe YOUR OWN souls, and to put
to YOURSELVES the solemn question, “Is there not in ME an element of
Chichikov?” For how should there not be? Which of you is not liable at
any moment to be passed in the street by an acquaintance who, nudging
his neighbour, may say of you, with a barely suppressed sneer: “Look!
there goes Chichikov! That is Chichikov who has just gone by!”
But here are we talking at the top of our voices whilst all the time our
hero lies slumbering in his britchka! Indeed, his name has been repeated
so often during the recital of his life’s history that he must almost
have heard us! And at any time he is an irritable, irascible fellow when
spoken of with disrespect. True, to the reader Chichikov’s displeasure
cannot matter a jot; but for the author it would mean ruin to quarrel
with his hero, seeing that, arm in arm, Chichikov and he have yet far to
go.
“Tut, tut, tut!” came in a shout from Chichikov. “Hi, Selifan!”
“What is it?” came the reply, uttered with a drawl.
“What is it? Why, how dare you drive like that? Come! Bestir yourself a
little!”
And indeed, Selifan had long been sitting with half-closed eyes, and
hands which bestowed no encouragement upon his somnolent steeds save an
occasional flicking of the reins against their flanks; whilst Petrushka
had lost his cap, and was leaning backwards until his head had come to
rest against Chichikov’s knees--a position which necessitated his being
awakened with a cuff. Selifan also roused himself, and apportioned to
the skewbald a few cuts across the back of a kind which at least had the
effect of inciting that animal to trot; and when, presently, the other
two horses followed their companion’s example, the light britchka moved
forwards like a piece of thistledown. Selifan flourished his whip and
shouted, “Hi, hi!” as the inequalities of the road jerked him vertically
on his seat; and meanwhile, reclining against the leather cushions
of the vehicle’s interior, Chichikov smiled with gratification at the
sensation of driving fast. For what Russian does not love to drive fast?
Which of us does not at times yearn to give his horses their head, and
to let them go, and to cry, “To the devil with the world!”? At such
moments a great force seems to uplift one as on wings; and one flies,
and everything else flies, but contrariwise--both the verst stones, and
traders riding on the shafts of their waggons, and the forest with
dark lines of spruce and fir amid which may be heard the axe of the
woodcutter and the croaking of the raven. Yes, out of a dim, remote
distance the road comes towards one, and while nothing save the sky and
the light clouds through which the moon is cleaving her way seem halted,
the brief glimpses wherein one can discern nothing clearly have in them
a pervading touch of mystery. Ah, troika, troika, swift as a bird, who
was it first invented you? Only among a hardy race of folk can you have
come to birth--only in a land which, though poor and rough, lies spread
over half the world, and spans versts the counting whereof would leave
one with aching eyes. Nor are you a modishly-fashioned vehicle of the
road--a thing of clamps and iron. Rather, you are a vehicle but shapen
and fitted with the axe or chisel of some handy peasant of Yaroslav.
Nor are you driven by a coachman clothed in German livery, but by a man
bearded and mittened. See him as he mounts, and flourishes his whip, and
breaks into a long-drawn song! Away like the wind go the horses, and
the wheels, with their spokes, become transparent circles, and the
road seems to quiver beneath them, and a pedestrian, with a cry of
astonishment, halts to watch the vehicle as it flies, flies, flies on
its way until it becomes lost on the ultimate horizon--a speck amid a
cloud of dust!
And you, Russia of mine--are not you also speeding like a troika which
nought can overtake? Is not the road smoking beneath your wheels, and
the bridges thundering as you cross them, and everything being left in
the rear, and the spectators, struck with the portent, halting to wonder
whether you be not a thunderbolt launched from heaven? What does that
awe-inspiring progress of yours foretell? What is the unknown force
which lies within your mysterious steeds? Surely the winds themselves
must abide in their manes, and every vein in their bodies be an
ear stretched to catch the celestial message which bids them, with
iron-girded breasts, and hooves which barely touch the earth as
they gallop, fly forward on a mission of God? Whither, then, are
you speeding, O Russia of mine? Whither? Answer me! But no answer
comes--only the weird sound of your collar-bells. Rent into a thousand
shreds, the air roars past you, for you are overtaking the whole world,
and shall one day force all nations, all empires to stand aside, to give
you way!
1841.