Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Yijian Xiaoshi
A Small Incident
一件小事 (A Small Incident)
von Lu Xun (鲁迅, 1881-1936)
Uebersetzt aus dem Chinesischen.
Section 1
[A Small Incident]
Since I came from the countryside to the capital, six years have passed in the blink of an eye. During this time, I have heard and seen quite a number of so-called great national affairs; but none of them left any mark on my heart. If I were to identify the influence of these events, it would only be that they increased my bad temper -- to put it honestly, they taught me to despise people more and more with each passing day.
Yet one small incident was meaningful to me: it pulled me out of my bad temper, and I cannot forget it to this day.
It was the winter of the sixth year of the Republic. A fierce north wind was blowing hard. Because of my livelihood, I had to be out on the road early. Along the way, I could hardly see a soul. With great difficulty, I finally hired a rickshaw and told the puller to take me to the S Gate. Before long, the north wind died down. The dust on the road had long been swept away, leaving a clean white road. The rickshaw puller ran faster too. Just as we neared the S Gate, someone suddenly got caught on the shafts and slowly fell down.
The fallen person was a woman with graying hair in tattered clothes. She had suddenly darted across from the roadside in front of the rickshaw. The puller had already swerved aside, but her old cotton vest was unbuttoned, and the breeze blew it open, so it finally caught on the shafts. Fortunately, the puller had already slowed down somewhat, otherwise she would have taken a bad tumble and cracked her head open.
She lay on the ground; the rickshaw puller also stopped. I was certain the old woman was not injured. Since no one else was watching, I was annoyed that he was making trouble for himself, inviting problems, and also delaying my journey.
I said to him, "It's nothing. Go on!"
The rickshaw puller paid me no attention -- or perhaps did not hear me -- but set down the rickshaw, helped the old woman slowly to her feet, steadied her by the arm, and asked her:
"What happened to you?"
"I've hurt myself."
I thought: I saw you fall slowly -- how could you be hurt? You're just putting on an act. How detestable. The puller is making unnecessary trouble, bringing suffering on himself. Figure it out yourself.
The rickshaw puller heard the old woman's words but did not hesitate for a moment. Still supporting her by the arm, he walked forward step by step. I was somewhat startled and looked ahead -- there was a police substation. After the wind, no one was outside. The puller was leading the old woman straight toward that gate.
At that moment, I was suddenly seized by a strange feeling. His dusty figure from behind seemed to grow tall in an instant, and the further he walked, the larger he became, until I had to look up to see him. Moreover, he gradually became almost a kind of pressure upon me, even pressing out the "smallness" hidden beneath my fur gown.
My vitality seemed somewhat frozen at that moment. I sat without moving, without thinking, until I saw a policeman come out of the station. Only then did I get down.
The policeman approached me and said, "Hire yourself another rickshaw. He can't pull you anymore."
Without thinking, I grabbed a large handful of copper coins from my coat pocket, handed them to the policeman, and said, "Please give these to him..."
The wind had completely died down, and the road was still quiet. I walked along, thinking, almost afraid to think about myself. Setting aside earlier matters, what did that large handful of copper coins mean? To reward him? Could I still judge the rickshaw puller? I could not answer myself.
This incident still comes to mind from time to time even now. And because of it, I often endure anguish and strive to think about myself. The years of civil administration and military force have long since become like the "sayings of the Master and verses of the poets" I read as a child -- I cannot recite even half a sentence. Only this one small incident keeps floating before my eyes, sometimes even more vividly, making me feel ashamed, urging me to renew myself, and increasing my courage and hope.
(July 1920.)
[Chapter Eight]
Chichikov's purchase of serfs had already become the topic of conversation throughout the town. People debated, conversed, and examined whether it was actually profitable to buy serfs for the purpose of resettlement. Many of the discussions were remarkably precise and objective: "Of course it's profitable," said one, "the soil in the southern provinces is good and fertile, that goes without saying. But there is no water -- what are Chichikov's serfs supposed to do? There are no rivers there!" -- "That wouldn't be so bad; even without a river, it's not the worst, Stepan Dmitrievich; but resettlement is a very uncertain business. Everyone knows what a serf is like: he moves to a new place to farm -- but there's nothing there -- no house, no estate -- I tell you, he'll run away, as sure as two times two makes four. He'll lace up his boots and be off; finding him will take you many days!" -- "No, no, pardon me, Alexei Ivanovich, I hold a quite different view. If you say the serfs will flee from Chichikov -- a true Russian can do anything and get used to any climate. Just give him a pair of warm gloves, and you can send him anywhere you like, even to Kamchatka. He'll run around a bit, warm himself up, grab an axe, and build a new house." -- "But, dear Ivan Grigorievich, you've completely forgotten one thing: you haven't at all considered what kind of serfs Chichikov has bought. You've quite forgotten that no landowner would so easily let go of a good man. If they're not drunkards, topers, brawlers, and loafers, I'll stake my head on it!" -- "Very well, I agree with that too. No one sells a good man. Chichikov's people are probably mostly drunkards, that's certainly true. But one should also consider the lessons of history: just now one may indeed have been a layabout, but if you resettle him, he can suddenly become an honest servant. Such cases are not unprecedented in the world or in history." -- "No, no," said the superintendent of the state factory, "believe me, that's absolutely impossible, because Chichikov's serfs face two great enemies. The first enemy is the proximity to the Little Russian provinces, where, as everyone knows, liquor is sold freely. I dare assure you, within two weeks they'll be drowned in drink, turned into idlers and loafers. The second enemy is the habit and taste for dissolute living, which they pick up from the resettlement. Chichikov must keep watch, hold them firmly, govern them strictly. He must punish every trifle severely, entrust nothing to others, do everything himself, and when necessary, apply the whip and slaps." -- "Why should Chichikov personally wield the whip? He can use an overseer." -- "Very well, but where will you find a suitable overseer? They're all swindlers and scoundrels!" -- "That's because the masters themselves are ignorant of the business, and that's why the overseers become swindlers." -- "Exactly," chimed in many. -- "If the landowner himself understands something about estate management and knows his people, he can always find a good overseer." The factory superintendent protested, however, insisting that no good overseer could be found for less than five thousand rubles. The court president objected that one could be found for three thousand. The superintendent then asked, "And where do you intend to find him? Can you dig him out of your nose?" The court president replied: "Out of the nose, of course not, that won't do. But right here, in this district, there is one -- Peter Petrovich Samoilov. If Chichikov were to hire him to oversee his serfs, he would be exactly the right man!" Many tried to put themselves in Chichikov's position, moving with a whole horde of serfs to a strange place, and felt dismayed -- truly a great difficulty. Everyone especially feared that such unreliable material as Chichikov's serfs might even raise a rebellion. The police chief then remarked that rebellion was not to be feared; to prevent it, thank God, there existed an authority: the court president. The court president need not even appear in person; it would suffice to send his cap -- that cap alone would be enough to bring the serfs to their senses, make them change their minds, and return quietly home. Many also expressed opinions and important proposals regarding the rebellious nature of Chichikov's serfs. The ideas were very divergent. Some advocated excessive military severity and extraordinary harshness, while others expressed so-called mildness. The police chief then remarked that Chichikov now faced a sacred duty: he could serve as a father to his own serfs and, as he liked to put it, spread charitable education among them. Seizing the opportunity, he also lavishly praised the modern Lancaster method of education.
The town thus debated and deliberated. Some, out of personal interest, passed their opinions on to Chichikov, offered him reliable advice, and some even volunteered to escort the serfs safely to their destination. For the advice, Chichikov thanked them very humbly, declaring he would apply it at any time. The escort, however, he declined, saying it was entirely unnecessary. The serfs he had purchased were of an especially docile nature. They wished voluntarily to resettle together and were very happy in their hearts. A rebellion was absolutely out of the question.
All these discussions and conversations brought Chichikov the excellent results he had so eagerly desired. The rumor spread that he was a millionaire, no more and no less. Already in the first chapter we saw that the town's residents had been quite fond of Chichikov even without this affair. And honestly speaking, they really were all good people who treated each other kindly and lived together intimately. Their conversations bore the stamp of utmost honesty and warmth: "Esteemed friend, Ilya Ilyich!" "Listen, Antipater Sakharievich, my good fellow!" "You're lying, dear mama, Ivan Grigorievich!" To the postmaster, whose name was Ivan Andreevich, people often said: "Sprechen Sie Deutsch, Ivan Andreevich?"
In short, people there lived quite like a family. Many were well-educated: the court president still knew by heart the then quite fashionable Zhukovsky's "Ludmila" and recited some passages with great skill -- for instance the verse "The forest sleeps, the valley slumbers." Particularly masterly was the way the word "slumbers" sounded from his lips -- one really felt as though the valley had gone to sleep. To enhance the effect further, he even closed his own eyes at that point. The postmaster leaned more toward philosophy, reading diligently all night Young's "Night Thoughts" and Eckartshausen's "The Key to the Mysteries of Nature." He also made very long excerpts; what exactly he excerpted, naturally no one could clearly determine. Besides this, he was a great wit with a florid manner of speech, which he himself said he liked to "embellish." And indeed he embellished his speech with a great profusion of phrases, such as: "Dear sir, it is thus, you know, you understand, you can imagine, probably, so to speak" and many more, in which he had great practice. Additionally, he embellished his speech quite aptly with a meaningful look, or simply closed one eye, making people sense a rather fierce expression in his satirical comparisons. The other gentlemen were also mostly well-educated, very enlightened personages: one read Karamzin, another the "Moscow Gazette," a third read nothing at all. One, whom everyone called "the nightcap," always had to be given a good shove in the ribs before he would do anything. Another was simply a complete lazybones who lay on a bearskin all his life -- push him as hard as you might, he simply would not get up. As for their appearance, they were naturally all handsome, decent, and obliging folk -- not a consumptive among them. They all belonged to that class of men who, during tender endearments when only four eyes were present, liked to call their women: my little fatty, my dear big-belly, my lambkin, my little gourd, my little pug, and the like. But for the most part they were good-natured, lovable, generous folk. Anyone who had been their guest or played cards with them for a night quickly became intimate with them, nine times out of ten becoming one of their own. With the masterful Chichikov, this was even more the case, for he truly knew the secret of making himself likeable. They loved him so much that he simply could not find a way to leave. He kept hearing: "Oh, just one more week; do stay another week with us, Pavel Ivanovich!" -- In short, as the proverb says, he became the apple of their eye. But extraordinarily powerful, extraordinarily striking, hm, most astonishing and most remarkable was the impression Chichikov made on the ladies. To explain this somewhat, we should speak about the ladies themselves and their society. We should paint their spiritual characteristics in vivid, brilliant colors -- but this is very difficult for the author. On the one hand, he feels boundless reverence and awe before the wives of high dignitaries, and on the other... yes, on the other... it is simply very difficult. The ladies of N.... no, I cannot, really, I am afraid. What is most noteworthy about the ladies of N.? ... No, how strange, the pen refuses to move, it seems to have become a block of lead. Well then: we must leave the description of their character to someone else who has more vivid and brilliant colors on his palette than I; we shall say only a word or two about their appearance, their general surface.
Section 2
The ladies of N. were well known for their lavishness, and in this respect all women could take them as a model. In matters of proper deportment, refined tone, etiquette, and the subtlest rules of conduct -- especially in the study of fashion down to the minutest detail -- they were actually a step or two ahead of the ladies of Petersburg and Moscow. They wore tasteful dresses, rode in handsome carriages through the main street, and always had a footman in gold braid bobbing on the running board behind them. A visiting card, if the name was engraved on Bristol board, was a sacred object. Two ladies of rank, formerly the best of friends and cousins, had fallen out completely over such a visiting card -- one had failed to return the other's call. Their husbands and relatives tried their utmost to reconcile them, but in vain -- everything in the world can be accomplished except this: reconciling two ladies who have become enemies over a neglected return visit. So the two remained, as the local gentry put it, stuck in "mutual evil looks."
The morals of the ladies of N. were extremely strict: they countered every transgression and temptation with noble indignation. If they learned of any weakness, their verdict was merciless. But if anything occurred among themselves, it was done in the greatest secrecy. In speech, they were equally careful, much like their Petersburg counterparts. No one ever heard them say: "I blew my nose!" or "I'm sweating!" Instead they said: "I cleared my nose" or "I used my handkerchief." To ennoble Russian speech, nearly half of all words had been banished from conversation, and one had to take refuge in French.
Previously, the ladies had scarcely mentioned Chichikov. But once the rumor of his being a millionaire spread, attention turned to his other qualities as well. The fault lay solely in the word "millionaire" -- not the millionaire himself, just the word. In many drawing rooms, it began to be discussed that Chichikov, while no Adonis, was certainly a respectable man; if he were just a trifle stouter, he would not look so well. The cloth market became very lively, carriages shuttled back and forth. Even Chichikov was finally struck by the unusual attention paid to him. One fine day, he came home to find a letter on his desk. It began quite directly: "No, I must write to you!" There followed reflections on the mysterious communion of souls, then several golden words: "What is life? -- A valley of exile and sorrow. What is the world? -- A heap of unfeeling people." The writer spoke of her frail mother who had died twenty-five years ago, and whose tears had moistened the stationery. She urged Chichikov to leave the suffocating city and follow her into the wilderness. At the end, genuine despair poured forth:
Two turtledoves
Shall bear thee to the grave,
They coo and sing
To show thee my deep woe.
The last line was not entirely smooth, but no matter: the letter was perfectly in keeping with the spirit of the times. It bore no signature. A postscript stated that Chichikov's own heart would guess the sender, and that at the next day's ball at the governor's house, this strange personage would also be present.
All this was quite interesting. The anonymity contained much stimulus and temptation. Chichikov read the letter two or three times and finally exclaimed: "It would really be interesting to find out who wrote it!" He spent over an hour in strange conjectures, then carefully folded the letter and placed it in his trunk, beside a theater advertisement and a wedding invitation that had lain there untouched for seven years. Soon afterwards, an invitation to the governor's ball actually arrived.
He immediately dropped everything and devoted himself to preparations for the ball. The inspection and rehearsal of his face before the mirror alone took an hour. He made his face appear now grave and dignified, now deferentially smiling, now deferential without the smile. He bowed before the mirror while uttering vague, French-sounding noises, though Chichikov knew not a word of French. Then he practiced expressions of delighted surprise, raised his eyebrows, moved his lips, even worked his tongue once or twice. Finally, he lightly stroked his chin and said: "Ah, what a fine fellow you are!" Then he began to dress. Throughout, he remained in the best of spirits, buckling his belt and tying his cravat while practicing casual bows and elegant salutations, and even executing a little jump, although he had never learned to dance. The jump had a harmless consequence: the wardrobe shook and a brush fell from the table.
His appearance at the ball created a sensation. Everyone rushed to greet him. "Pavel Ivanovich!" "My God, Pavel Ivanovich!" "Dear Pavel Ivanovich!" -- Chichikov found himself embraced by many people simultaneously. Scarcely had he escaped the court president's embrace when the police chief seized him, passed him to the health inspector, who handed him to the liquor monopoly director, who passed him to the architect... The governor, standing with some ladies, a bonbon wrapper in one hand and a little Bolognese dog in the other, threw both to the floor when he spotted Chichikov, making the dog howl. In short, the guest spread joy and merriment everywhere.
The ladies immediately surrounded him like a brilliant garland, enveloping him in clouds of various perfumes. Their attire displayed infinite taste; all the colors of taffeta, satin, and net were in the most fashionable pale, faded shades. Ribbons, bows, and bouquets fluttered in picturesque disorder on their dresses, though this disorder had been devised by many orderly minds over considerable time. The light headdresses perched only on the ears, as if wanting to say: "Wait! I am about to fly away! A pity I cannot take my beauty along!" All wore tightly fitting bodices that showed their upright, graceful figures. The long gloves did not quite reach the sleeves, revealing a charming stretch of arm above the elbow. In short, everything seemed to say: "No, no, this is not the provinces, this is Paris!" Chichikov stood before the ladies and thought: "But who is the letter-writer?" He tried to thrust his nose forward but ran into elbows, lapels, cuffs, ribbons, and a whole army of perfumed blouses and dresses. A wild galop raced past his eyes: the postmaster's wife, the court president, a lady with blue plumes, one with white, a Georgian prince, an official from Petersburg, another from Moscow, the Frenchman Coucou, Mr. Perkhunovsky and Mr. Perebendovsky -- all suddenly appeared and dashed about.
Section 3
"Here with us -- the whole province is in motion!" said Chichikov, retreating. But when the ladies dispersed, he tried again to see if he could tell from their expressions or glances who the letter-writer was; yet neither face nor eyes revealed it. Everywhere, on every face, there floated something vaguely suspicious, infinitely subtle -- oh, how subtle...! "No," thought Chichikov, "women... are simply such creatures" -- he made an expressive gesture -- "there is simply nothing to say! If someone wanted to describe all the nuances and shadings that pass over their faces -- he simply could not! Their eyes alone are a boundless kingdom, and whoever wanders in is lost! Neither hook nor wind could pull him back. Let someone try to describe their gaze: the tender, soft, honey-sweet gaze... Who knows how many kinds there are: hard and soft, dreamy, or as some say, 'intoxicating' gazes, and then ones that are not intoxicating but even more dangerous -- they seize the heart and pierce the soul like an arrow. No, words cannot be found for it. It is simply the 'amusement half' of human society, and nothing more!"
Alas, not quite right! I never expected our hero to let slip such a vulgar expression. But what can one do? Such is the fate of Russian writers! However, if a vulgar word has crept into this book, the fault lies not with the author but with the reader, especially the fashionable reader: from him, one never hears proper Russian first. He plies you with German, French, and English so abundantly that one would gladly retreat, and he practices the pronunciation industriously: French must be spoken nasally or bellowed, English like a bird -- and even that is not enough, one must also put on a bird-like face and mock those who cannot manage the trick. The only thing they studiously avoid is anything Russian -- at most they build a country dacha in the Russian style. Such are the fashionable readers and all who consider themselves so! Yet on the other hand: so strict, so demanding! They insist on the most correct, purest, most elevated style -- in a word, the Russian language should perfect itself, fall down from the clouds and land exactly on their tongues, so they need only open their mouths and let it run out. The female half of human society is of course hard to fathom; but I must confess, the esteemed male readers often seem to me even harder to penetrate.
Section 4
Chichikov's behavior aroused the indignation of all the ladies. One of them passed by him deliberately to make him feel it, somewhat roughly sweeping the blonde hair with her outspread skirt while simultaneously adjusting the shawl on her shoulders, whose corner brushed right against the young lady's face; at the same time, another lady behind Chichikov's back, together with the violet scent wafting from her, let fly a rather venomous and caustic remark. But whether he truly did not hear or merely pretended not to, his conduct here was indeed somewhat inappropriate, for the ladies' opinions always deserve respect. He regretted his error, but unfortunately only later, when it was already too late.
Many faces showed proper indignation. However great Chichikov's reputation in society, however certain everyone was of his millions, however dignified and heroic his expression -- there is one thing ladies never forgive a man, no matter what or who he may be, and he is finished. Woman, compared to man, may be weaker by nature, but at certain moments she is not only stronger than man but stronger than anything in the world. The contempt Chichikov had unwittingly shown reunited the ladies, who had nearly fallen out over the chair affair, in peace and harmony. In their casual, seemingly harmless remarks, one suddenly found malicious, sharp sarcasm. To cap the misfortune, some young man had composed a satirical verse or two about the dancers, without which provincial balls rarely end. The verses were immediately attributed to Chichikov. The indignation grew; the ladies gathered in corners of the hall whispering to each other; the poor blonde girl was ridiculed mercilessly and her death sentence pronounced.
Meanwhile, a most vexing attack awaited our hero. While his young opponent yawned and he told her various old stories, even mentioning the Greek philosopher Diogenes, Nozdryov suddenly appeared, emerging from one of the back rooms. Whether he came from the lounge or the green card room, whether voluntarily or thrown out -- he strode in cheerfully and merrily, dragging the prosecutor by the arm, whom he had evidently been hauling about for some time, for the poor prosecutor was frowning and looking about as if seeking escape. Nozdryov had downed two cups of tea -- with rum, of course -- in one gulp, then started boasting again. The moment Chichikov spotted him from afar, he decided to sacrifice his present pleasant situation and flee, for this encounter could bring nothing good. Unfortunately, the governor suddenly appeared, saying he was delighted to find Pavel Ivanovich and asking him to arbitrate a small dispute between two ladies about whether women's love was lasting. But Nozdryov had already seen him and came running straight at him:
"Aha! The Kherson landowner! The Kherson landowner!" he shouted, running up with a laugh, his fresh cheeks, red as a spring rose, trembling with mirth. "Well? Have you bought many dead ones? You must know, Your Excellency!" -- turning to the governor, he bellowed: "He deals in dead souls! Really, listen, Chichikov! Listen, I say it as a friend, we here are all your good friends, His Excellency is here too -- I'd hang you, really, I'd hang you!"
Chichikov was utterly at a loss.
"You won't believe me, Your Excellency!" Nozdryov continued. "He said to me: 'Listen, sell me your dead souls!' I nearly died laughing. When I came to town, they told me he'd bought three million rubles' worth of souls for resettlement -- what a resettlement! He tried to buy dead people from me too. Listen, Chichikov: you're a pig, God in heaven, you're a pig! Isn't that right, Mr. Prosecutor?"
But both the prosecutor and Chichikov were utterly confounded and could find no reply. Nozdryov, however, grew more animated and chattered on heedlessly: "Oh, oh, my darling... if you won't tell me why you buy dead souls, I won't let you go." But his kisses came most unceremoniously. Everyone drew back and stopped listening. Yet his words about buying dead souls had been bellowed at full volume with loud laughter, so that even the most distant guests took notice. Everyone stood dumbfounded, half bewildered, half confused. Chichikov noticed many ladies exchanging meaningful glances and smiling maliciously. That Nozdryov was a notorious liar, everyone knew. Yet mortal man -- alas, how can this be explained: no sooner is there some outrageously absurd piece of news than he unconditionally spreads it; another listens eagerly, then says "But that's a monstrous lie!" yet rushes out to find a third and tell him the story, after which both exclaim indignantly: "What a base lie!" -- and yet the news spreads through the entire town.
This supremely trivial accident made our hero very nervous. A fool's confused, absurd words can often disconcert even a clever man. He suddenly felt uncomfortable and distressed, as if stepping with polished boots into a foul, stinking puddle. He sat down to play cards, but nothing went right. The postmaster, court president, and police chief teased him about being in love. Supper did not cheer him up either. Nozdryov had long since been thrown out after sitting on the floor during the cotillion and grabbing the dancers' coattails. Chichikov did not even wait for supper to end and went home early.
In his room, where the reader already knows the wardrobe by the door and the cockroaches in the corners, his mind was as restless as the rickety armchair he sat in. His heart was heavy. A crushing emptiness tormented him: "The devil take those who arranged this ball!" he cried furiously. "Why must they be so merry? The whole province suffers from crop failures and high prices, and they throw balls!" He ranted on, but his real anger was not at the ball -- it was at having been thrust into an ambiguous, compromising role before everyone. He immediately found a scapegoat: dear Nozdryov, whom he naturally cursed up and down, inside and out. Nozdryov's entire genealogy was dragged out, and many of his ancestors were thoroughly abused.
But while Chichikov, tormented by gloomy thoughts, sat sleepless in his hard armchair cursing Nozdryov and his entire family, while the candlelight grew dim and the wick charred, while outside the pitch-black night was already giving way to the pale light of dawn and the first cocks crowed in the distance -- at the other end of town, the curtain was already rising on a drama that would further complicate our hero's distressing situation. In the distant streets and lanes, a most peculiar vehicle came rattling along, looking neither like a coach nor a covered wagon nor a half-covered wagon, but rather like a fat-cheeked, potbellied watermelon set on wheels. Inside were cushions and bags of grain. The noise of iron rims and rusty screws woke the night watchman. The horses kept stumbling, having no horseshoes. The vehicle turned several corners and finally stopped before the house of the archpriest's wife. First a maid climbed out, then a lady: it was the landowner Korobozhka. No sooner had our hero departed than the old woman grew terribly anxious, fearing she had been cheated. After three sleepless nights she resolved, despite unshod horses, to drive to town and find out the going price for dead souls and whether she had been thoroughly swindled. What resulted, the reader will learn at once from the conversation of two ladies. But that conversation had better be recorded in the next chapter.
Section 9
"That is not at all the case, Anna Grigorievna! It is an entirely different matter from what you imagine. Just think, he suddenly appeared before her, armed to the teeth, a regular Rinaldo Rinaldini, and shouted at her: 'Sell me the souls, the dead ones!' Korobozhka naturally replied quite sensibly: 'I cannot sell them to you; they are already dead.' -- 'No,' he cried, 'they are not dead. Whether they are dead or not is my business,' he said, 'they are not dead, not dead!' He shouted: 'They are not dead!' In short, he created a terrible commotion. The whole village fled, children screamed, everyone shouted, nobody understood anyone -- in a word, dreadful, dreadful, dreadful! You simply cannot imagine, Anna Grigorievna, how frightened I was when I heard all this. 'Dear madam,' my Mashka said to me, 'look in the mirror! You have gone quite pale!' -- 'Oh, never mind the mirror now,' I said, 'I must rush to Anna Grigorievna at once to tell her!' I immediately ordered the carriage. My coachman Andrushka asked me where I wanted to go, but I could not utter a word, just stared at him like an idiot. He must surely have thought I had gone mad. Oh, Anna Grigorievna, if you could only imagine how agitated I was!"
"Hm! How very strange!" said the lady who was agreeable in all respects. "What on earth are dead souls supposed to mean? I frankly confess, I do not understand this story at all, not in the least. Now this is already the
Section 12
the first chapter should have arisen. It was further decided to visit the people who had sold him the dead souls, to investigate several matters -- at least they wanted to learn how the transaction had actually taken place, what the dead souls actually meant, and what Chichikov had explained to the governor. In short, there was much to do. The town was in tremendous commotion, everything bubbling like a boiling pot. Like a whirlwind, everything that had lain on the ground rose up. It turned out that the town was by no means as sleepy and calm as it had seemed. The president of the court chamber, who was so proud of his composure, completely lost his head. The police chief, who usually managed everything with the utmost calm, was beside himself. The postmaster, who otherwise remained perpetually serene, sensed that something dreadful was afoot. They all lost their wits, fell into fear and terror, and the whole bond holding society together threatened to snap. People rushed about, gathered together, deliberated -- and the result was the decision to convene a meeting at the police chief's, who was already known to the reader as the father and benefactor of the town.
Section 26
Are you not also racing along, Russia, like a bold, ever-elusive troika? The ground raises dust beneath you; the bridges roar. Everything is left behind you, far behind you. The astonished onlooker stops, as if shaken by a miracle of God. Is that a bolt of lightning from the clouds? What is the meaning of this terrifying motion? And what inconceivable power resides in these horses never before seen in the world? Oh, you horses! You wondrous horses! Does a whirlwind dwell in your manes? Does an attentive ear tremble in every vein? You have heard the beloved, familiar song from above, and now you thrust forward your bronze breasts in unison! Your hooves barely touch the ground, you stretch into a line, fly through the air, race onward as if divinely inspired! ... Russia, where are you racing to? Give an answer! You are silent. The bells ring their wondrous song. The air roars and congeals, as if torn apart by the wind; everything that lives and stirs upon the earth is overtaken; all other nations and peoples step aside, draw back, and make way for you.