allowed him no such rudeness!' or 'Don't fight, you boor, go to the police, I'll prove it to you there!...” In short, words which suddenly pour like boiling pitch over some dreamy twenty-year-old youth, when he is returning from the theater, carrying in his head a street in Spain, night, the wondrous image of a woman with a guitar and curls. Is there anything, any dream, not in his head? He is in heaven and has come calling on Schiller[30]—and suddenly over him there resound, like thunder, the fatal words, and he sees that he is back on earth, and even on Haymarket Square, and even near a pot-house, and workaday life again goes strutting before him.
Finally, after a decent bounce, the britzka sank, as if into a hole, into the gates of the inn, and Chichikov was met by Petrushka, who held the skirts of his frock coat with one hand, for he did not like them to come open, and with the other began helping him to get out of the britzka. The floorboy also ran out with a candle in his hand and a napkin on his shoulder. Whether Petrushka was glad of his master's arrival is not known; in any case, he exchanged winks with Selifan, and his ordinarily stern exterior this time seemed to brighten a little.
'You've been off on a long one, sir,' said the floorboy, lighting the stairway.
'Yes,' said Chichikov, as he went up the stairs. 'And how's with you?'
'Well, thank God,' the floorboy replied, bowing. 'Yesterday some army lieutenant came and took number sixteen.'
'A lieutenant?'
'Some unknown kind, from Ryazan, bay horses.'
'Very good, very good, keep up the good behavior,' Chichikov said and went into his room. Passing through the anteroom, he wrinkled his nose and said to Petrushka: 'You might at least have opened the windows!'
'But I did open them,' Petrushka said, lying. Incidentally, the master knew he was lying, but he had no wish to object. After the trip he had made, he felt great fatigue. Having asked for a very light supper, consisting only of suckling pig, he straightaway got undressed and, slipping under the blanket, fell asleep soundly, deeply, fell asleep in the wondrous way that they alone sleep who are so fortunate as to know nothing of hemorrhoids, or fleas, or overly powerful mental abilities.
Chapter Seven
Happy the wayfarer who, after a long, boring journey with its cold, slush, dirt, sleepy stationmasters, clanking bells, repairs, altercations, coachmen, blacksmiths, and all sorts of scoundrels of the road, sees at last the familiar roof with its lights rushing to meet him, and before him stand familiar rooms, the joyful shout of his people running to meet him, the noise and scampering of children, and soothing soft speech, interrupted by burning kisses with the power to wipe out all that is mournful from the memory. Happy the family man who has such a corner, but woe to the bachelor!
Happy the writer who, passing by characters that are boring, disgusting, shocking in their mournful reality, approaches characters that manifest the lofty dignity of man, who from the great pool of daily whirling images has chosen only the rare exceptions, who has never once betrayed the exalted tuning of his lyre, nor descended from his height to his poor, insignificant brethren, and, without touching the ground, has given the whole of himself to his elevated images so far removed from it. Twice enviable is his beautiful lot: he is among them as in his own family; and meanwhile his fame spreads loud and far. With entrancing smoke he has clouded people's eyes; he has flattered them wondrously, concealing what is mournful in life, showing them a beautiful man. Everything rushes after him, applauding, and flies off following his triumphal chariot. Great world poet they name him, soaring high above all other geniuses in the world, as the eagle soars above other high fliers. At the mere mention of his name, young ardent hearts are filled with trembling, responsive tears shine in all eyes. . . No one equals him in power—he is God! But such is not the lot, and other is the destiny of the writer who has dared to call forth all that is before our eyes every moment and which our indifferent eyes do not see—all the terrible, stupendous mire of trivia in which our life is entangled, the whole depth of cold, fragmented, everyday characters that swarm over our often bitter and boring earthly path, and with the firm strength of his implacable chisel dares to present them roundly and vividly before the eyes of all people! It is not for him to win people's applause, not for him to behold the grateful tears and unanimous rapture of the souls he has stirred; no sixteen-year-old girl will come flying to meet him with her head in a whirl and heroic enthusiasm; it is not for him to forget himself in the sweet enchantment of sounds he himself has evoked; it is not for him, finally, to escape contemporary judgment, hypocritically callous contemporary judgment, which will call insignificant and mean the creations he has fostered, will allot him a contemptible corner in the ranks of writers who insult mankind, will ascribe to him the qualities of the heroes he has portrayed, will deny him heart, and soul, and the divine flame of talent. For contemporary judgment does not recognize that equally wondrous are the glasses that observe the sun and those that look at the movements of inconspicuous insects; for contemporary judgment does not recognize that much depth of soul is needed to light up the picture drawn from contemptible life and elevate it into a pearl of creation; for contemporary judgment does not recognize that lofty ecstatic laughter is worthy to stand beside the lofty lyrical impulse, and that a whole abyss separates it from the antics of the street- fair clown! This contemporary judgment does not recognize; and will turn it all into a reproach and abuse of the unrecognized writer; with no sharing, no response, no sympathy, like a familyless wayfarer, he will be left alone in the middle of the road. Grim is his path, and bitterly will he feel his solitude.
And for a long time still I am destined by a wondrous power to walk hand in hand with my strange heroes, to view the whole of hugely rushing life, to view it through laughter visible to the world and tears invisible and unknown to it! And still far off is the time when, in a different key, a fearsome tempest of inspiration will rise from a head wreathed in sacred awe and radiance, and in confused trepidation will be heard the majestic thunder of a different speech . . .
Onward! onward! away with the wrinkle that furrows the brow and the stern gloom of the face! At once and suddenly let us plunge into life with all its noiseless clatter and little bells and see what Chichikov is doing.
Chichikov woke up, stretched his arms and legs, and felt he had had a good sleep. After lying on his back for a minute or two, he snapped his fingers and remembered with a beaming face that he now owned nearly four hundred souls. He straightaway jumped out of bed, not even looking at his face, which he sincerely loved and in which, it seemed, he found the chin most attractive of all, for he quite often boasted of it to one or another of his friends, especially if it was while shaving. 'Just look,' he would usually say, stroking it with his hand, 'what a chin I've got: quite round!' But this time he did not glance either at his chin or at his face, but directly, just as he was, put on his morocco boots with multicolor applique, an object of brisk trade in Torzhok thanks to the lounge-robe inclinations of the Russian nature, and, Scottish-fashion, in nothing but a short shirt, forgetting his staid and decorous middle age, performed two leaps across the room, smacking himself quite adroitly with his heel. Then at that same moment he got down to business: facing the chest, he rubbed his hands with the same pleasure as the incorruptible circuit court, having come for an inquest, does when approaching the hors d'oeuvres, and instantly took the papers out of it. He wanted to finish everything quickly, without letting it simmer. He decided to draw up the deeds himself, writing them out and copying them, so as to pay nothing to scriveners. He knew the formal order perfectly. Briskly he set forth in big letters: 'The year one thousand eight hundred and such-and-such,' then in smaller letters following that: 'The landowner so-and-so,' and everything else necessary. In two hours it was all done. Afterwards, as he looked at these papers, at these muzhiks who, indeed, had been muzhiks once, had worked, ploughed, drunk, driven, deceived their masters, or perhaps had simply been good muzhiks, some strange feeling, incomprehensible to himself, took hold of him. It was as if each list had some peculiar character, and as if through it the muzhiks themselves acquired a character of their own. The muzhiks who had belonged to Korobochka almost all had additions and nicknames. Plyushkin's list was distinguished by brevity of style: often only the initial letters of names and patronymics were put down, and then two dots. Sobakevich's register was striking in its extraordinary fullness and thoroughness; not one of the muzhik's qualities was omitted: 'good cabinetmaker' was said of one; 'knows what he's about, and never touches the liquor' was added to another. It was also thoroughly noted who the father and mother were and how they had behaved themselves; only for a certain Fedotov it was written: 'father unknown, was born of the serf girl Capitolina, but is of good character and not a thief.' All these details gave off a peculiar air of freshness: it seemed the muzhiks had been alive only yesterday. Looking at their names for a long time, he was moved in his spirit and, sighing, said: 'My heavens, there's so many of you crammed in here! What did you do in your lives, dear hearts, how did you get by?' And his eyes involuntarily paused on one
