Dead Souls (35 page)

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.

Why do I so persistently paint the poverty, the imperfections of
Russian life, and delve into the remotest depths, the most retired
holes and corners, of our Empire for my subjects? The answer is that
there is nothing else to be done when an author's idiosyncrasy happens
to incline him that way. So again we find ourselves in a retired spot.
But what a spot!

Imagine, if you can, a mountain range like a gigantic fortress, with
embrasures and bastions which appear to soar a thousand versts towards
the heights of heaven, and, towering grandly over a boundless expanse
of plain, are broken up into precipitous, overhanging limestone
cliffs. Here and there those cliffs are seamed with water-courses and
gullies, while at other points they are rounded off into spurs of
green—spurs now coated with fleece-like tufts of young undergrowth,
now studded with the stumps of felled trees, now covered with timber
which has, by some miracle, escaped the woodman's axe. Also, a river
winds awhile between its banks, then leaves the meadow land, divides
into runlets (all flashing in the sun like fire), plunges, re-united,
into the midst of a thicket of elder, birth, and pine, and, lastly,
speeds triumphantly past bridges and mills and weirs which seem to be
lying in wait for it at every turn.

At one particular spot the steep flank of the mountain range is
covered with billowy verdure of denser growth than the rest; and here
the aid of skilful planting, added to the shelter afforded by a rugged
ravine, has enabled the flora of north and south so to be brought
together that, twined about with sinuous hop-tendrils, the oak, the
spruce fir, the wild pear, the maple, the cherry, the thorn, and the
mountain ash either assist or check one another's growth, and
everywhere cover the declivity with their straggling profusion. Also,
at the edge of the summit there can be seen mingling with the green of
the trees the red roofs of a manorial homestead, while behind the
upper stories of the mansion proper and its carved balcony and a great
semi-circular window there gleam the tiles and gables of some
peasants' huts. Lastly, over this combination of trees and roofs there
rises—overtopping everything with its gilded, sparkling steeple—an
old village church. On each of its pinnacles a cross of carved gilt is
stayed with supports of similar gilding and design; with the result
that from a distance the gilded portions have the effect of hanging
without visible agency in the air. And the whole—the three successive
tiers of woodland, roofs, and crosses whole—lies exquisitely mirrored
in the river below, where hollow willows, grotesquely shaped (some of
them rooted on the river's banks, and some in the water itself, and
all drooping their branches until their leaves have formed a tangle
with the water lilies which float on the surface), seem to be gazing
at the marvellous reflection at their feet.

Thus the view from below is beautiful indeed. But the view from above
is even better. No guest, no visitor, could stand on the balcony of
the mansion and remain indifferent. So boundless is the panorama
revealed that surprise would cause him to catch at his breath, and
exclaim: "Lord of Heaven, but what a prospect!" Beyond meadows studded
with spinneys and water-mills lie forests belted with green; while
beyond, again, there can be seen showing through the slightly misty
air strips of yellow heath, and, again, wide-rolling forests (as blue
as the sea or a cloud), and more heath, paler than the first, but
still yellow. Finally, on the far horizon a range of chalk-topped
hills gleams white, even in dull weather, as though it were lightened
with perpetual sunshine; and here and there on the dazzling whiteness
of its lower slopes some plaster-like, nebulous patches represent
far-off villages which lie too remote for the eye to discern their
details. Indeed, only when the sunlight touches a steeple to gold does
one realise that each such patch is a human settlement. Finally, all
is wrapped in an immensity of silence which even the far, faint echoes
of persons singing in the void of the plain cannot shatter.

Even after gazing at the spectacle for a couple of hours or so, the
visitor would still find nothing to say, save: "Lord of Heaven, but
what a prospect!" Then who is the dweller in, the proprietor of, this
manor—a manor to which, as to an impregnable fortress, entrance
cannot be gained from the side where we have been standing, but only
from the other approach, where a few scattered oaks offer hospitable
welcome to the visitor, and then, spreading above him their spacious
branches (as in friendly embrace), accompany him to the facade of the
mansion whose top we have been regarding from the reverse aspect, but
which now stands frontwise on to us, and has, on one side of it, a row
of peasants' huts with red tiles and carved gables, and, on the other,
the village church, with those glittering golden crosses and gilded
open-work charms which seem to hang suspended in the air? Yes,
indeed!—to what fortunate individual does this corner of the world
belong? It belongs to Andrei Ivanovitch Tientietnikov, landowner of
the canton of Tremalakhan, and, withal, a bachelor of about thirty.

Should my lady readers ask of me what manner of man is Tientietnikov,
and what are his attributes and peculiarities, I should refer them to
his neighbours. Of these, a member of the almost extinct tribe of
intelligent staff officers on the retired list once summed up
Tientietnikov in the phrase, "He is an absolute blockhead;" while a
General who resided ten versts away was heard to remark that "he is a
young man who, though not exactly a fool, has at least too much
crowded into his head. I myself might have been of use to him, for not
only do I maintain certain connections with St. Petersburg, but
also—" And the General left his sentence unfinished. Thirdly, a
captain-superintendent of rural police happened to remark in the
course of conversation: "To-morrow I must go and see Tientietnikov
about his arrears." Lastly, a peasant of Tientietnikov's own village,
when asked what his barin was like, returned no answer at all. All of
which would appear to show that Tientietnikov was not exactly looked
upon with favour.

To speak dispassionately, however, he was not a bad sort of
fellow—merely a star-gazer; and since the world contains many
watchers of the skies, why should Tientietnikov not have been one of
them? However, let me describe in detail a specimen day of his
existence—one that will closely resemble the rest, and then the
reader will be enabled to judge of Tientietnikov's character, and how
far his life corresponded to the beauties of nature with which he
lived surrounded.

On the morning of the specimen day in question he awoke very late,
and, raising himself to a sitting posture, rubbed his eyes. And since
those eyes were small, the process of rubbing them occupied a very
long time, and throughout its continuance there stood waiting by the
door his valet, Mikhailo, armed with a towel and basin. For one hour,
for two hours, did poor Mikhailo stand there: then he departed to the
kitchen, and returned to find his master still rubbing his eyes as he
sat on the bed. At length, however, Tientietnikov rose, washed
himself, donned a dressing-gown, and moved into the drawing-room for
morning tea, coffee, cocoa, and warm milk; of all of which he partook
but sparingly, while munching a piece of bread, and scattering tobacco
ash with complete insouciance. Two hours did he sit over this meal,
then poured himself out another cup of the rapidly cooling tea, and
walked to the window. This faced the courtyard, and outside it, as
usual, there took place the following daily altercation between a serf
named Grigory (who purported to act as butler) and the housekeeper,
Perfilievna.

Grigory. Ah, you nuisance, you good-for-nothing, you had better hold
your stupid tongue.

Perfilievna. Yes; and don't you wish that I would?

Grigory. What? You so thick with that bailiff of yours, you
housekeeping jade!

Perfilievna. Nay, he is as big a thief as you are. Do you think the
barin doesn't know you? And there he is! He must have heard
everything!

Grigory. Where?

Perfilievna. There—sitting by the window, and looking at us!

Next, to complete the hubbub, a serf child which had been clouted by
its mother broke out into a bawl, while a borzoi puppy which had
happened to get splashed with boiling water by the cook fell to
yelping vociferously. In short, the place soon became a babel of
shouts and squeals, and, after watching and listening for a time, the
barin found it so impossible to concentrate his mind upon anything
that he sent out word that the noise would have to be abated.

The next item was that, a couple of hours before luncheon time, he
withdrew to his study, to set about employing himself upon a weighty
work which was to consider Russia from every point of view: from the
political, from the philosophical, and from the religious, as well as
to resolve various problems which had arisen to confront the Empire,
and to define clearly the great future to which the country stood
ordained. In short, it was to be the species of compilation in which
the man of the day so much delights. Yet the colossal undertaking had
progressed but little beyond the sphere of projection, since, after a
pen had been gnawed awhile, and a few strokes had been committed to
paper, the whole would be laid aside in favour of the reading of some
book; and that reading would continue also during luncheon and be
followed by the lighting of a pipe, the playing of a solitary game of
chess, and the doing of more or less nothing for the rest of the day.