Chapter VII: Book III: Rise of the Russian Novel (2)

"The Cloak" and his celebrated comedy, "The Inspector," also translated as "The Revizor," are the result of his official experiences. Men who have been a good deal tossed about, who have drunk of life's cup of bitterness, who have been bruised by its sharp corners and torn by its thorns, if they have an analytical mind and a magnanimous heart, human kindness and a spark of genius, become the great satirists, great humorists, and great moralists. "The Inspector" is a picture of Russian public customs painted by a master hand; it is a laugh, a fling of derision, at the baseness of a society and a political regimen under which bureaucracy and official formalism can descend to incredible vice and corruption. It seems at first a mere farce, such as is common enough on the Russian or any stage; but the covert strength of the satire is so far-reaching that the "Inspector" is a symbolical and cruel work. The curtain rises at the moment when the officials of a small provincial capital are anxiously awaiting the Inspector, who is about to make them a visit incognito. A traveller comes to the only hotel or inn of the town, and all believe him to be the dreaded governmental attorney. It turns out that the traveller who has given them such a fright is neither more nor less than an insignificant employee from St. Petersburg, a madcap fellow, who, having run short of money, is obliged to cut his vacation journey short. When he is apprised of a visit from the governor, he thinks he is about to be arrested. What is his astonishment when he finds that, instead of being put in prison, a purse of five hundred rubles is slipped into his hand, and he is conducted with great ceremony to visit hospitals and schools. As soon as he smells the _quid pro quo_ he adapts himself to the part, dissimulates, and plays the protector, puts on a majestic and severe demeanor, and after having fooled the whole town and received all sorts of obsequious attentions, he slips out with a full purse. A few minutes afterward the real Inspector appears and the curtain falls.

Gogol frankly confesses that in this comedy he has tried to put together and crystallize all the evil that he saw in the administrative affairs of Russia. The general impression it gave was that of a satire, as he desired; the nation looked at itself in the glass, and was ashamed. "In the midst of my own laughter, which was louder than ever," says Gogol, "the spectator perceived a note of sorrow and anger, and I myself noticed that my laugh was not the same as before, and that it was no longer possible to be as I used to be in my works; the need to amuse myself with innocent fictions was gone with my youth." This is the sincere confession of the humorist whose laughter is full of tears and bitterness.

This rough satire on the government of the autocrat Nicholas, this terrible flagellation of wickedness in high places raised to a venerated national institution, was represented before the court and applauded by it, and the satirical author of it was subjected to no censor but the emperor himself, who read the play in manuscript, burst into roars of laughter over it, and ordered his players to give it without delay; and on the first night Nicholas appeared in his box, and his imperial hands gave the signal for applause. The courtiers could not do otherwise than swallow the pill, but it left a bad taste and a bitter sediment in their hearts, which they treasured up against Gogol for the day of revenge.

On this occasion the terrible autocrat acted with the same exquisite delicacy and truly royal munificence which he had shown toward Puchkine. On allowing Gogol a pension of five thousand rubles, he said to the person who presented the petition, "Do not let your protégé know that this gift is from me; he would feel obliged to write from a government standpoint, and I do not wish him to do that." Several times afterward the Emperor secretly sent him such gifts under cover of his friend Joukowsky the poet, by which means he was able to defray his journeys to Europe.

Without apparent cause Gogol's character became soured about the year 1836; he became a prey to hypochondria, probably, as may be deduced from a passage in one of his letters, on account of the atmosphere of hostility which had hung over him since the publication of "The Inspector." "Everybody is against me," he says, "officials, police, merchants, literary men; they are all gnashing and snapping at my comedy! Nowadays I hate it! Nobody knows what I suffer. I am worn out in body and soul." He determined to leave the country, and he afterward returned to it only occasionally, until he went back at last to languish and die there. Like Turguenief, and not without some, truth, he declared that he could see his country, the object of his study, better from a distance; it is the law of the painter, who steps away from his picture to a certain distance in order to study it better. He went from one place to another in Europe, and in Rome he formed a close friendship with the Russian painter Ivanof, who had retired to a Capuchin convent, where he spent twenty years on one picture, "The Apparition of Christ," and left it at last unfinished. Some profess to believe that Gogol was converted to Catholicism, and with his friend devoted himself to a life of asceticism and contemplation of the hereafter, toward which vexed and melancholy souls often feel themselves irresistibly drawn.

Gogol felt a strong desire to deal with the truth, with realities; he longed to write a book that would tell _the whole truth_, which should show Russia as she was, and which should not be hampered by influences that forced him to temporize, attenuate, and weigh his words,--a book in which he might give free vent to his satirical vein, and put his faculties of observation to consummate use. This book, which was to be a _résumé_ of life, a _chef d'oeuvre_, a lasting monument (the aspiration of every ambitious soul that cannot bear to die and be forgotten), at last became a fixed idea in Gogol's mind; it took complete possession of him, gave him no repose, absorbed his whole life, demanded every effort of his brain, and finally remained unfinished. And yet what he accomplished constitutes the most profoundly human book that has ever been written in Russia; it contains the whole programme of the school initiated by Gogol, and compels us to count the author of it among the descendants of Cervantes. "Don Quixote" was in fact the model for "Dead Souls," which put an end to romanticism, as "Quixote" did to books of chivalry. That none may say that this supposition is dictated by my national pride, I am going to quote literally two paragraphs, one by Gogol himself, the other by Melchior de Voguié, the intelligent French critic whose work on the Russian novel has been so useful to me in these studies.

"Puchkine," says Gogol, "has been urging me for some time to
undertake a long and serious work. One day he talked to me
of my feeble health, of the frequent attacks which may cause
my premature death; he mentioned as an example Cervantes,
the author of some short stories of excellent quality, but
who would never have held the place he is awarded among the
writers of first rank, had he not undertaken his 'Don
Quixote.' And at last he suggested to me a subject of his
own invention on which he had thought of making a poem, and
said he would tell it to nobody but me. The subject was 'The
Dead Souls.' Puchkine also suggested to me the idea of 'The
Inspector.'"

"In spite of this frank testimony," adds Voguié, "equally
honorable to both friends, I must continue to believe that
the true progenitor of 'Dead Souls' was Cervantes himself.
On leaving Russia Gogol turned toward Spain, and studied at
close quarters the literature of this country, especially
'Don Quixote,' which was always his favorite book. The
Spanish humorist held up to him a subject marvellously
suited to his plans, the adventures of a hero with a mania
which leads him into all regions of society, and who serves
as the pretext to show to the spectator a series of
pictures, a sort of human magic-lantern. The near
relationship of these two works is indicated at all
points,--the cogitative, sardonic spirit, the sadness
underlying the laughter, and the impossibility of
classifying either under any definite literary head. Gogol
protested against the application of the word 'novel' to
his book, and himself called it a poem, dividing it, not
into chapters but into cantos. Poem it cannot be called in
any rigorous sense of the term; but classify 'Don Quixote,'
and Gogol's masterpiece will fall into the same category."

I read "Dead Souls" before reading Voguié's criticism, and my impression coincided exactly with his. I said to myself, "This book is the nearest like 'Don Quixote' of any that I have ever read." There are important differences--how could it be otherwise?--and even discounting the loss to Gogol by means of translation, a marked inferiority of the Russian to Cervantes; but they are writers of the same species, and even at the distance of two centuries they bear a likeness to each other. And the intention to take "Don Quixote" as a model is evident, even though Gogol had never set foot in Spain, as some of his compatriots affirm.

"Dead Souls" may be divided into three parts: the first, which was completed and published in 1842; the second, which was incomplete and rudimentary, and cast into the flames by the author in a fit of desperation, but published after his death from notes that had escaped this holocaust; and the third, which never took shape outside the author's mind.

Even the contrast between the heroes of Cervantes and Gogol--the Ingenious Knight Avenger of Wrongs, and the clever rascal who goes from place to place trying to carry out his extravagant schemes--illustrates still more clearly the Cervantesque affiliation of the book. Undoubtedly Gogol purposely chose a contrast, because he wished to embody in the story the wrath he felt at the social state of Russia, more lamentable and hateful even than that of Spain in Cervantes' time. No more profound diatribe than "Dead Souls" has ever been written in Russia, though it is a country where satire has flourished abundantly. Sometimes there is a ray of sunshine, and the poet's tense brows relax with a hearty laugh. In the first chapter is a description of the Russian inns, drawn with no less graceful wit than that of the inns of La Mancha. It is not difficult to go on with the parallel.

In "Dead Souls," as in "Don Quixote," the hero's servants are important personages, and so are their horses, which have become typical under the names of Rocinante and Rucio; the dialogues between the coachman Selifan and his horses remind one of some of the passages between Sancho and his donkey. As in "Don Quixote," the infinite variety of persons and episodes, the physiognomy of the places, the animated succession of incidents, offer a panorama of life. As in "Don Quixote," woman occupies a place in the background; no important love-affair appears in the whole book. Gogol, like Cervantes, shows less dexterity in depicting feminine than masculine types, except in the case of the grotesque, where he also resembles the creator of Maritornes and Teresa Panza. As in "Don Quixote," the best part of the book is the beginning; the inspiration slackens toward the middle, for the reason, probably, that in both the poetic instinct supersedes the prudent forecasting of the idea, and there is in both something of the sublime inconsistency common to geniuses and to the popular muse. And in "Don Quixote," as in "Dead Souls," above the realism of the subject and the vulgarity of many passages there is a sort of ebullient, fantastic life, something supersensual, which carries us along under full sail into the bright world of imagination; something which enlivens the fancy, takes hold upon the mind, and charms the soul; something which makes us better, more humane, more spiritual in effect.

The subject of "Dead Souls"--so strange as never to be forgotten--gives Gogol a wide range for his pungent satire. Tchitchikof--there's a name, indeed!--an ex-official, having been caught in some nefarious affair, and ruined and dishonored by the discovery, conceives a bright idea as to regaining his fortune. He knows that the serfs, called in Russia by the generic name of _souls_, can be pawned, mortgaged, and sold; and that on the other hand the tax-collector obliges the owners to pay a _per capita_ tax for each soul. He remembers also that the census is taken on the Friday before Easter, and in the mean time the lists are not revised, seeing that natural processes compensate for losses by death. But in case of epidemic the owner loses more, yet continues to pay for hands that no longer toil for him; so it occurs to Tchitchikof to travel over the country buying at a discount a number of _dead souls_ whose owners will gladly get rid of them, the buyer having only to promise to pay the taxes thereon; then, having provided these dead souls (though to all legal intents still living) with this extraordinary nominal value, he will register them as purchased, take the deed of sale to a bank in St. Petersburg, mortgage them for a good round sum, and with the money thus obtained, buy real live serfs of flesh and blood, and by this clever trick make a fortune. No sooner said than done. The hero gives orders to harness his _britchka_, takes with him his coachman and his lackey,--two delicious characters!--and goes all over Russia, ingratiating himself everywhere, finding out all about the people and the estates, meeting with all sorts of proprietors and functionaries, and falling into many adventures which, if not quite as glorious as those of the Knight of La Mancha, are scarcely less entertaining to read about. And where is such another diatribe on serfdom as this lugubrious burlesque furnishes, or any spectacle so painfully ironical as that of these wretched corpses, who are neither free nor yet within the narrow liberty of the tomb,--these poor bones ridiculed and trafficked for even in the precincts of death?

This remarkable book, which contains a most powerful argument against the inveterate abuses of slavery, unites to its value as a social and humanitarian benefactor that of being the corner-stone of Russian realism,--the realism which, though already perceptible in the prose writings of the romantic poets, appears in Gogol, not as a confused precursory intuition, nor as an instinctive impulsion of a national tendency, but as a rational literary plan, well based and firmly established. A few quotations from "Dead Souls," and some passages also from Gogol's Letters, will be enough to prove this.

"Happy is the writer,"[1] he says sarcastically, "who
refrains from depicting insipid, disagreeable, unsympathetic
characters without any charms whatever, and makes a study of
those more distinguished, refined, and exquisite; the writer
who has a fine tact in selecting from the vast and muddy
stream of humanity, and devoting his attention to a few
honorable exceptions to the average human nature; who never
once lowers the clear, high tone of his lyre; who never puts
his melodies to the ignoble use of singing about folk of no
importance and low quality; and who, in fact, taking care
never to descend to the too commonplace realities of life,
soars upward bright and free toward the ethereal regions of
his poetic ideal!... He soothes and flatters the vanity of
men, casting a veil over whatever is base, sombre, and
humiliating in human nature. All the world applauds and
rejoices as he passes by in his triumphal chariot, and the
multitude proclaims him a great poet, a creative genius, a
transcendent soul. At the sound of his name young hearts
beat wildly, and sweet tears of admiration shine in gentle
eyes.... Oh, how different is the lot of the unfortunate
writer who dares to present in his works a faithful picture
of social realities, exactly as they appear to the naked
eye! Who bade him pay attention to the muddy whirlpool of
small miseries and humiliations, in which life is perforce
swallowed up, or take notice of the crowd of vulgar,
indifferent, bungling, corrupt characters, that swarm like
ants under our feet? If he commit a sin so reprehensible,
let him not hope for the applause of his country; let him
not expect to be greeted by maidens of sixteen, with heaving
bosom and bright, enthusiastic eyes.... Nor will he be able
to escape the judgment of his contemporaries, a tribunal
without delicacy or conscience, which pronounces the works
it devours in secret to be disgusting and low, and with
feigned repugnance enumerates them among the writings which
are hurtful to humanity; a tribunal which cynically imputes
to the author the qualities and conditions of the hero whom
he describes, allowing him neither heart nor soul, and
belittling the sacred flame of talent which is his whole
life.

"Contemporary judgment is not yet able or willing to
acknowledge that the lens which discloses the habits and
movements of the smallest insect is worthy the same
estimation as that which reaches to the farthest limits of
the firmament. It seems to ignore the fact that it needs a
great soul indeed to portray sincerely and accurately the
life that is stigmatized by public opinion, to convert clay
into precious pearls through the medium of art.
Contemporary judgment finds it hard to realize that frank,
good-natured laughter may be as full of merit and dignity
as a fine outburst of lyric passion. Contemporary judgment
pretends ignorance, and bestows only censure and
depreciation upon the sincere author,--knows him not,
disdains him; and so he is left wretched, abandoned,
without sympathy, like the lonely traveller who has no
companion but his own indomitable heart.

"I understand you, dear readers; I know very well what you
are thinking in your hearts; you curse the means that shows
you palpable, naked human misery, and you murmur within
yourselves, 'What is the use of such an exhibition? As
though we did not already know enough of the absurd and
base actions that the world is always full of! These things
are annoying, and one sees enough of them without having
them set before us in literature. No, no; show us the
beautiful, the charming; that which shall lift us above the
levels of reality, elevate us, fill us with enthusiasm.'
And this is not all. The author exposes himself to the
anger of a class of would-be patriots, who, at the least
indication of injury to the country's decorum, at the first
appearance of a book that dwells on some bitter truths,
raise a dreadful outcry. 'Is it well that such things
should be brought to light?' they say; 'this description
may apply to a good many people we know; it might be you,
or I, or our friend there. And what will foreigners say? It
is too bad to allow them to form so poor an opinion of us.'
Hypocrites! The motive of their accusations is not
patriotism, that noble and beautiful sentiment; it is mean,
low calculation, wearing the mask of patriotism. Let us
tear off the mask and tread it under foot. Let us call
things by their names; it is a sacred duty, and the author
is under obligation to tell the truth, the whole truth."

These passages just quoted are sufficiently explicit; but the following, taken from one of Gogol's letters concerning "Dead Souls," is still more so.

"Those who have analyzed my talents as a writer have not
been able to discover my chief quality. Only Puchkine
noticed it, and he used to say that no author had, so much
as I, the gift of showing the reality of the trivialities of
life, of describing the petty ways of an insignificant
creature, of bringing out and revealing to my readers
infinitesimal details which would otherwise pass unnoticed.
In fact, there is where my talent lies. The reader revolts
against the meanness and baseness of my heroes; when he
shuts the book he feels as though he had come up from a
stifling cellar into the light of day. They would have
forgiven me if I had described some picturesque theatrical
knave, but they cannot forgive my vulgarity. The Russians
are shocked to see their own insignificance."

"My friend," he writes again, "if you wish to do me the
greatest favor that I can expect from a Christian, make a
note of every small daily act and fact that you may come
across anywhere. What trouble would it be to you to write
down every night in a sort of diary such notes as
these,--To-day I heard such an opinion expressed, I spoke
with such a person, of such a disposition, such a
character, of good education or not; he holds his hands
thus, or takes his snuff so,--in fact, everything that you
see and notice from the greatest to the least?"

What more could the most modern novelist say,--the sort that carries a memorandum-book under his arm and makes sketches, after the fashion of the painters?

Thus we see that a man gifted with epic genius became in 1843, before Zola was dreamt of, and when Edmond de Goncourt was scarcely twenty, the founder of realism, the first prophet of the doctrine not inexactly called by some the doctrine of literary microbes, the poet of social atoms whose evolution at length overturns empires, changes the face of society, and weaves the subtle and elaborate woof of history. I will not go so far as to affirm with some of the critics that this light proceeded from the Orient, and that French realism is an outcome of distant Russian influence; for certainly Balzac had a large influence in his turn upon his Muscovite admirers. But it is undeniable that Gogol did anticipate and feel the road which literature, and indeed all forms of art, were bound to follow in the latter half of the nineteenth century.

Certain critics see, in this doctrine of literary microbes preached by Gogol in word and deed, nothing less than an immense evolution, characteristic of and appropriate to our age. It is the advent of literary democracy, which was perhaps foreseen by the subtle genius of those early novelists who described the beggar, the lame, halt, and blind, thieves and robbers, and creatures of the lowest strata of society; with the difference that to-day, united to this spirit of æsthetic demagogy, there is a shade of Christian charity, compassion, and sympathy for wretchedness and misery which sometimes degenerates, in less virile minds than Gogol's, into an affected sentimentality. George Eliot, that great author and great advocate of Gogol's own theories, and the patroness of realism of humblest degree, speaks in words very like those used by the author of "Taras," of the strength of soul which a writer needs to interest himself in the vulgar commonplaces of life, in daily realities, and in the people around us who seem to have nothing picturesque or extraordinary about them. If there be any who could carry out this rehabilitation of the miserable with charity and tenderness, it would be the Saxon and the Sclav rather than the refined and haughty Latin, and in both these the seed scattered by Gogol has brought forth fruit abundantly. Modern Russian literature is filled with pity and sincere love toward the poorer classes; one might almost term it evangelical unction; at the voice of the poet (I cannot refuse this title to the author of "Taras") Russia's heart softened, her tears fell, and her compassion, like a caressing wave, swept over the toiling _mujik_, the ill-clad government clerk, the ragged, ignorant beggar, the political convict in the grasp of the police, and even the criminal, the vulgar assassin with shaven head, mangled shoulders, blood-stained hands, and manacled wrists. And more; their pity extends even to the dumb beasts, and the death of a horse mentioned by one great Russian novelist is more touching than that of any emperor.

Gogol is the real ancestor of the Russian novel; he contained the germs of all the tendencies developed in the generation that came after him; in him even Turguenief the poet and artist, Tolstoï the philosopher, and Dostoiëwsky the visionary, found inspiration. There are writers who seem possessed of the exalted privilege of uniting and accumulating all the characteristics of their race and country; their brain is like a cave filled with wonderful stalactites formed by the deposits of ages and events. Gogol is one of these. The peculiarities of the Russian soul, the melancholy dreaminess, the satire, the suppressed and resigned soul-forces, are all seen in him for the first time.

To quote from "Dead Souls" would be little satisfaction. One must read it to understand the deep impression it made in Russia. After looking it through, Puchkine exclaimed, "How low is our country fallen!" and the people, much against their will, finally acknowledged the same conviction. After a hard fight with the censors, the work of art came off at last victorious; it captured all classes of minds, and became, like "Don Quixote," the talk of every drawing-room, the joke of every meeting-place, and a proverb everywhere. The serfs were now virtually set free by force of the opinion created, and the whole nation saw and knew itself in this æsthetic revelation.

But the man who dares to make such a revelation must pay for his temerity with his life. Gogol returned from Rome intent upon the completion of the fatal book; but his nerves, which were almost worn out, failed him utterly at times, his soul overflowed with bitterness and gall, and at last in a fit of rage and desperation he burned the manuscript of the Second Part, together with his whole library. His darkened mind was haunted by the question in Hamlet's monologue, the problem concerning "that bourn from which no traveller returns;" his meditations took a deeply religious hue, and his last work, "Letters to my Friends," is a collection of edifying epistles, urging the necessity of the consideration of the hereafter. To these exhortations he added one on Sclavophile nationalism, exaggerated by a fanatical devotion; and in the same breath he heralds the spirit of the Gospels and anathematizes the theories imported from the Occident, and declares that he has given up writing for the sake of dedicating his time to self-introspection and the service of his neighbor, and that henceforth he recognizes nothing but his country and his God. The public was exasperated; it was Gogol's fate to rouse the tiger. Who ever heard of a satirist turning Church father? It began to be whispered that Gogol had become a devotee of mysticism; and it is quite true that on his return from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem he lived miserably, giving all he had to the poor. He was hypochondriac and misanthropic, excepting when with children, whose innocent ways brought back traces of his former good-nature. His death is laid to two different causes. The general story is that during the Revolution of 1848 he lost what little intelligence remained to him, under the conviction that there was no remedy for his country's woes; and at last, weighed down by an incurable melancholy and despair, and terrified by visions of universal destruction and other tremendous catastrophes, he fell on his knees and fasted for a whole day before the holy pictures that hung at the head of his bed, and was found there dead. Recent writers modify this statement, and claim to know on good authority that Gogol died of a typhoid fever, which, with his chronic infirmities, was a fatal complication. Whatever may have been the illness which took him out of the world, it is certain that the part of Gogol most diseased was his soul, and his sickness was a too intense love of country, which could not see with indifferent optimism the ills of the present or the menace of the future. Gogol had no heart-burdens except the suffering he endured for the masses; he was unmarried, and was never known to have any passion but a love of country exaggerated to a dementia.

It is a strange thing that Gogol--the sincere reactionist, the admirer of absolutism and of autocracy, the Pan-Sclavophile, the habitual enemy of Western paganism and liberal theories--should have been the one to throw Russian letters into their present mad whirl, into the path of nihilism and into the currents of revolution,--a course which he seems to have described once in allegory, in one of the most admirable pages of "Dead Souls," where he compares Russia to a _troïka_. I will quote it, and so take my farewell of this Russian Cervantes:--

"Rapidity of motion [in travel] is like an unknown force, a
hidden power which seizes us and carries us on its wings; we
skim through the air, we fly, and everything else flies too;
the verst-stones fly; the tradesmen's carts fly past on one
side and the other; forests with dark patches of pines rush
by, and the noise of destroying axes and the cawing of
hungry crows; the road flies by and is lost in the distance
where we can distinguish neither object nor form nor color,
unless it be a bit of the sky or the moon continually
crossed by patches of flying cloud. O troïka, troïka,
bird-troïka! There is no need to ask who invented thee! Thou
couldst not have been conceived save in the breast of a
quick, active people, in the midst of a gigantic territory
that covers half the globe, and where nobody dares count the
verst-stones on the roads for fear of vertigo! Thou art not
graceful in thy form, O telega, rustic britchka, kibitka,
thou carriage for all roads in winter or summer! No, thou
art not an object of art made to please the eye; dry wood, a
hatchet, a chisel, a clever arm,--with these thou art set
up; there is not a peasant in Yaroslaf that knows not how to
construct thee. Now the troïka is harnessed. And where is
the man? What man? The driver? Aha! it is this same peasant!
Very well, let him put on his boots and get up on his seat.
Did you say his boots? This is no German postilion; he needs
no boots nor any foot-gear at all. All that he needs is
mittens for his hands and a beard on his chin! See him
balancing himself; hear him sing. Now he pulls away like a
whirlwind; the wheels seem a smooth circle from centre to
circumference, and the tires are invisible; the ground
rushes to meet the clattering hoofs; the foot-traveller
leaps to one side with a cry of fright, then stops and opens
his mouth in astonishment; but the vehicle has passed, and
on it flies, on it flies, and far away a little whirl of
dust rises, spreads out, divides, and disappears in gauzy
patches, falling gently upon the sides of the road. It is
all gone; nothing remains of it.

"Thou art like the troïka, O Russia, my beloved country!
Dost thou not feel thyself carried onward toward the
unknown like this impetuous bird which nobody can overtake?
The road is invisible under thy feet, the bridges echo and
groan, and thou leavest everything behind thee in the
distance. Men stop and gaze surprised at this celestial
portent. Is it the lightning? Is it the thunderbolt from
heaven itself? What causes this movement of universal
terror? What mysterious and incomprehensible force spurs on
thy steeds? They are Russian steeds, good steeds. Doth the
whirlwind sometimes nestle in their manes? The signal is
given: three bronze breasts expand; twelve ready feet start
with simultaneous impetus, their light hoofs scarce
striking the ground; three horses are changed before, our
very eyes into three parallel lines which fly like a streak
through the tremulous air. The troïka flies, sails, bright
as a spirit of God. O Russia, Russia! whither goest thou?
Answer! But there is no response; the bell clangs with a
supernatural tone; the air, beaten and lashed, whistles and
whirls, and rushes off in wide currents; the troïka cuts
them all on the wing, and nations, monarchies, and empires
stand aside and let her pass."

[1] I could take this passage bodily from the translation of "Dead Souls" made by Isabella Hapgood directly from the Russian, but there are some discrepancies in which the Spanish writer seems to be in the right, as in the use of the word _writer_ for _reader_.--Tr.